Black and grey fine line Hamsa hand tattoo with an eye and floral filigree on the inner forearm, shown against ripped denim.

Hamsa hand with eye on a forearm

Fine line · Forearm · Black and grey · Photo

A Hamsa hand design with a central eye sits on the inner forearm, with paisley-style leaves, flowers and scalloped mandala detail filling the fingers and palm. The linework is fine and dense, with stippled and soft shading that gives depth to the petals and the eye. The tattoo is shown in black and grey, photographed close up on the arm against light blue ripped denim.

Fine line Botanical Forearm Hamsa Hand Eye Paisley Flower Leaves Mandala

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The function room at the Crown smells of carpet shampoo and warm sausage rolls, and someone has pinned name badges to every lapel, yours still showing the surname you had before the wedding. Nobody checks them. You stand by the raffle table scanning the crowd for Priya Dhillon, who sat beside you in Chemistry and once told a supply teacher the Bunsen burner had it in for her.

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You find her by the window with a paper cup of warm prosecco. She is telling a man in a rugby shirt that the lower corridor by the old science block was painted grey in 2003, and that she watched it happen from the bus stop. You remember the wall before that: a big outlined hand across the brick, paisley leaves curling up the fingers, marigold rosettes in the palm, and in the centre an eye with a dark pupil, painted by the two of you during a detention nobody ever won.

Mr Haines said it looked like a henna shop had exploded in the dinner hall, and he made you scrub the lower third with a wire brush. The eye stayed, because Priya insisted. Her nan had a brass one over the door in Leicester, she said, to watch who came in and turn away anyone who meant harm. You nodded, because at fifteen it seemed like the sort of thing a person ought to believe.

You hold out your phone and show her the photograph you took the last week of Year 11, the wall still tacky with varnish. Priya studies it for a long time. 'It's still there,' she says, tapping the screen where the eye sits. 'Under the grey. They just couldn't get the varnish off the bricks.' Outside, a coach pulls away from the kerb, and you both laugh, and for a moment the old corridor seems to hold its gaze on you, steady and unimpressed.