The hand that wipes the arse is the hand that feeds the face today!
Is it foolishness? A mistake? An accident? Bloody karma?
Whatever. It’s my bad now.
Even this typing with the index finger of the left hand is painful and laboured.
Last week, last month. Home alone. Dinner time for son. Heated the ghee in a tiny steel jar; attended a phone call; hee hee; ghee jar caught fire on stove; doused flames and put it away near window only to have it catch fire again in the foggy night’s wind and have it spill- boiling ghee and a blob of flame- over the back of my right hand.
Second degree burns.Charred.Singed. Owwuch!
Six weeks recovery. Four months more for scar issues.
Want plastic surgery?
Don’t care as long as the fingers work.
Miserable. Painful. Hurting. Nasty.
Thought of Rajeev Goswami. Dowry burn victims. The blazing horror of it all.
There are mixed reactions.
“Paavam di, come to Madras. We’ll take care of you.”
“Wah! Miss ya’ll. Each time I had my hospital days you’ll fussed over me. ”
“Did you howl?”
“Nope. Bit the lip down. What’s the point with none of you around me?”
“Cheer up! Oru kai paarthudalam (wink, pun, no?)
“Kai ilagadavala aaitiye? Hehehehe.”
“Venda kai la vel paachitaena, Kannu?”
“Okay, look at it like this. You won’t land in hell in the afterlife. ‘Cause you’ve already burned in hell. Haw haw!”
“Oh, for God’s sake!”
I’ve made a new friend in these bad days, Bloggie.
Lily hails from a village from Manipur. She trained at nursing after school and is working in a big hospital here. A real Florence Nightingale. After hurts and more pain from assorted nurses, Lily’s touch is what I need. Truly healing. Is it her sweet nature or her steady hands? I don’t know.
She cleans the red skin, sponges the serum, cuts the dead skin, and dresses the swollen dark surface. She chats me up as she works medication on the injured hand.
“Doctor says you write?”
“Issss…ya ya, oh, God!”
“I do too. Wish my dad was here to read me. He always encourages me to write.”
“I’d like to read you, if you don’t mind”.
And so yesterday she hands me a little page.It’s a print- out of a story she wrote and a handwritten poem in green paper from her bag. Like lovers exchanging notes, I slip it in my bag promising to get back tomorrow when I land at the nursing station for my daily dressing and a shot in the butt for my pain.
“Where do I read what you write?” she asks.
I made bold to suggest she read you, Blog. Wonder why opening up to her seemed so easy then and made me nervous later?
PS-Hope she likes reading you, Blog. For some reason it seems more important than my medication.