Part 5 (1/2)

Under the sheets my hands reach like a tongue that can't stop playing with a loose tooth.

Over and over the rough bandages my fingers run, trying to smooth over reality.

In the morning I feel Paati's hands kneading my temples.

Not even her touch soothes me.

Murmuring a prayer, she places the bronze idol of s.h.i.+va I won at the compet.i.tion on my bedside table.

”Mukam karothi vachalam; pangum langayathe girim.”

G.o.d's grace moves the mute to eloquence and inspires the lame to climb mountains.

I glance at my dancing s.h.i.+va, His left leg raised parallel to the earth, His right leg crus.h.i.+ng the demon of ignorance, His inner hands juxtaposed, palms flat, His outer hands holding aloft the fire of creation and destruction, and a drum keeping time to the music of His eternal dance.

I try to repeat Paati's prayer. I strain my ears to hear His music.

It feels like s.h.i.+va destroyed my universes of possibility, like He's dancing on the ashes of my s.n.a.t.c.hed-away dreams.

NAMELESS.

”Veda, you've got a roommate,” a nurse announces.

A woman with a mop of gray hair gives me a yellow-toothed smile.

”I heard you lost your leg. How?”

I don't want this stuffy s.p.a.ce invaded.

Especially not by a chatty old woman.

I don't answer.

”Talking will help you heal, you know.

They cut my toes off. Diabetes.

Now tell me about you.”

I give her more silence.

”What's your full name, girl?

Veda what?

You can tell me that, at least, hmm?”

No.

I don't know who I am anymore.

PAIN UNCONTROLLED.

Nurses come and go, black strands of hair escaping bleached white caps, flowing saris peeping from beneath starched coats.

”Pain under control?” they ask.

As a dancer, how carefully I mastered the mechanics of my body- learning to bear just enough pain so I could wear it proudly, like a badge of honor.

I want to tell the nurses no scale can measure the pain of my dreams dancing beyond reach.

PINS, NEEDLES, PHANTOMS,.

and

PAIN.

The nurse pulls the faded privacy curtain around my bed to keep me partially hidden from my roommate's curious eyes. Why bother?

The curtain isn't soundproof.

My surgeon, Dr. Murali, lists my injuries in a tired voice, his limp hair matching the glint of his silver-rimmed spectacles.

Below-knee crush injury, concussion, two cracked ribs, cuts on thighs and shoulders.

”Nothing more.”

Sounds more than enough to me.