The gory event

I was hardly three or four. I have just gotten friendly with Superman and was grabbing every opportunity to swoop down like he does and saves the world. I even managed to get hold of a cape though I had some difficulty in skillfully avoiding mum’s eyes while trying on my ‘chaddi on pants’ fashion makeover. I still wonder though what is it that goes on in my mum’s head which makes the sight of me in a Superman garb so distasteful – she indulges me in every other way from buying Superman goodies to comic books but it is just this that I have still not managed to unearth. Anyway, coming back to the story, it was that point of life when I was running high on a cloud called Superman! So I ran out of the room into the living room, my cape flying gloriously behind me. Made a couple of mad circles then realizing that the women folk were near the kitchen I thought may be I should show off a bit there as well. My mum and bua were sitting near the dining table, chopping the vegetables and making arrangement for dinner. I was as usual greeted by the usual shouts and hollers asking me not to around like a madcap near the cutting board. Now let me explain that Indian cutting boards are not the usual ones with knife and a board as we see on television in western countries. What we have at home is nothing but a big sickle that is precariously attached to a piece of wood. The person using it has to hold the wooden thing with his/ her foot and then bring the vegetable near the sickle (instead of the knife coming down on the poor vegetables) and slice it through the sharp sickle. If you are even slightly not careful you can jolly well slice off your entire finger. I believe our culture teaches us to live life dangerously from the beginning. They even make the vegetables look like a martyr because here the knife does not come down on them but they go to the sickle! Anyway coming back to my running self who is presently swooping all over the place, I hopped skipped and jumped onto the table. Now I was riding high on my enthusiasm and had to show off that I can swoop down from something as high as the dining table. It will be my career best! And so amidst a lot of screaming voices I swooped down.

When I managed to open my eyes and look around I saw a lot of blood. Bua crying hysterically. My twin and sister were standing at the corner eyes filled with fear. I was in my mum’s arms who was squeezed my left hand tight so much so it hurt – though I wasn’t so sure what exactly it was that was hurting. My granny was making frantic calls to Dad at work and the doctors. I was rushed to the nearest hospital by mum – the only person looking at whom I felt that all is well.

The next few hours were a lot of blood. Screaming. Needles. Operating rooms. Big lights. Weird smells reminding me of some other time. And then I remember nothing else.

I opened my eyes. Mum was right next to my head. Dad was also just there. There was bawpi (my oldest aunt), Pishon (her husband), Anku, Chhopi and didun (granny). Their faces grave and then I realized that I couldn’t move my left hand. My head felt heavy. My whole body felt a little weak.

I went home after a few hours. I had swooped down on that deadly sickle that I was talking about before – landing on it with my left hand on the sickle. It sliced off the hand right through between the middle finger and the ring finger. The doctors had to operate it and pull the adjoining muscles and ligaments to put them together.