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Achilles Heel (Jacob Kurien, Nov 14th, 2007) |
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They say, what doesn't kill you makes you stronger. These words sparkle with wisdom that has been aged by the splendid march of successive generations of experience. In fact, its well accepted that you don't master riding a bicycle unless you collect a few falls. I've had my share of falls and bruises that have toughened my hide and declare witness to scarred legends.
The hardest blow I was meted was while playing with brazen enthusiasm at the sport I loved the most - Soccer. It was one sunny afternoon in VIIth grade and I was making a mad dash for the ball that was just within reach of my extended feet....Or I thought. The next split second of peril saw the collision of my right foot with either a rock or a tackler's frame (Ramandeep Singh to be more precise). The motion of bodies seemed to grind to a screeching halt and merged into one dreamy indeterminate hum as I lay prostrate, sprawled on the sands. The next thing I remember was urging someone to keep the ball in our team's possession while clutching my right shin in agony. Steadily a small crowd of my classmates hovered around me bellowing inquisitorial sounds to check on my wellbeing. As they helped me to my feet, I hobbled and tested my stride gingerly. Not good...There was not much of the game left to go and I resigned to watching it from the sidelines.
The rest of the day was a laboured one where my attention was divided between dreary lectures and the throbbing pain in my leg. Even Arti, who witnessed the incident, asked me if I was OK. Got home that evening and smiled through the tenderness without betraying the misery. The night was a restless one and in the morning the pain resumed to thump with renewed insistence. I decided to stay home lying that I had to catch up on studies for the exams that were around the corner. On returning home from work, my mom was suspicious about my reason for skipping school. After all, I had never missed a day for the last year and a half. But I just reiterated the fib of the looming dagger of the exams.
It just felt very weak to confess what I was going through and admitting pain was not fashionable in my books. I just had to grin and bear. I resorted to some self-recovery techniques over the next few days. A folded handkerchief bound tightly around my knee seemed to numb the pain a little. The tautness of this pseudo tourniquet killed the sensation I would have felt if the area had its freedom to pound. Another eureka moment in conquering pain was discovered whilst crouched under the faucet in the shower. The well fed jet of hot water anointing my knee was euphoric. These ephemeral sessions of perceived miraculous healing was the best relief I could get and I enjoyed it like eternity before the water lost steam. I started frequenting the shower twice a day and for about twenty minutes at a time....something I was not reputed to enjoy. Gradually, I exerted myself to attempt again the things I performed without gratitude before. In about a week I was good as new and my limping ceased to linger.
Twice, I had the tip of my spine get hurt in the most inexplicable showdowns. The first time, when I leapt backwards into a solid terrace wall in attempting to avoid the stretched arms of "IT" during blind man's buff. And the second instance was during a fun brawl with a neighbour. I landed on my rear and the same region of my anatomy met the thinly carpeted floor. I am not sure if the recurrence of injury to the same spot made the second round worse. Both times, the pain resonated all along the length of my spine and refused to heal as quickly as I would have liked. Every time I sat down, I had to rest one buttcheek cautiously on the seat and gently ease the other down to avoid sending a shooting fit of pain up my back.
Not wanting to feel left out, my eye decided it wanted to contribute some harm too. As recounted in another article, I chose to live with limited vision for a while and refused to wear corrective lenses. During a swift match of dabadhubi at school, my instincts failed to react in self-defense to block a rubber ball speeding towards my face. The resulting pain was excruciating and within a few minutes the hue of my right eye transformed to crimson. I was hastily led by a couple of my friends to the male staffroom where Mr Richards inspected and recommended keeping it damp with ice cold water. I played the one-eyed pirate in class for the remainder of the day. To add insult to injury, Dhavel would frequently make requests to reveal the grotesque unsightliness from underneath the cool comfort of the handkerchief for his petty amusement. Each pilgrimage to view my wretchedness added to his conviction that my body had become the residence of the Devil. How I longed for the destructive powers of Shiva's third eye.
Once, I scraped some skin off my arm while trying to open a slightly jammed bus window. It seemed trivial to me but panicked my mom who feared it would invite tetanus. So obviously I had to visit the hospital and take a preventative shot. The next day, George gasped in horror when I recounted to him that a nurse had put the needle to the suppleness of my rear. Totally aghast that one of the female species set eyes on my butt, he confided that when he had to take an injection, his mom would administer it at home since she was a nurse. Your rear is your business alone, he chided. I chuckled inwardly at his phobia of being violated.
I'm not sure why I remember all of these accidents with clarity. Maybe just being a survivor makes me proud. None was anywhere close to a near death experience but still enough to teach me about the condensed nature of life.
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