Wish I could slide out like a cobra.
Hide amid those unkempt roots.
“You were in a van,” the nurse says. “The driver was speeding.
A truck crashed into the van and ran it off the road.
Your driver hit a tree. He died.
Remember any of that?”
A pipul tree’s pale trunk
coming closer and closer.
Screaming.
The smell of vomit and blood.
“Your surgeon, Dr. Murali,
did all he could to save your foot.
He is a great surgeon.
He tried to save it but
he had to amputate.
Your foot was
too far gone.”
My hands thrash at the sheets.
I feel the nurse’s vise-grip around my wrists.
“Calm down. No need
to panic. You’re young. You’ll recover in no time.
Dr. Murali even had a physiatrist advise him during the surgery
on making the best cut
so an artificial leg would easily fit.
You’re lucky to have Dr. Murali for a surgeon.”
Lucky?
Ma reaches for my hand, whispering my name.
I squeeze my eyelids tight. Shut out everything.
No no no no no.
I need to get away.
Can’t.
Trapped.
EMPTINESS
FILLS
Pa comes in. Holds my hand.
His fingers are wilted stalks.
Drooping.
Tell me it’s a bad dream, Pa,
please.
“Just stepped out for a cup of coffee. Didn’t mean to leave you.
Didn’t want you to find out this way—we
—they—tried—” he chokes.
He moves his lips.
No words come.
My eyes are dry sockets in a skull.
Pa and I share
emptiness.
EVERYWHERE,
in
EVERYTHING
Everywhere, in everything, I used to hear music.
On sunny days when I was little, after Ma and Pa left for work,
we’d walk to the fruit stall down the road, Paati and I.
There was music
in the drone of horseflies
alighting on mangoes ripening in the heat.
Each day of the monsoon season
the rhythm of rain filled me.
Rain on the roof, rain drizzling
into rainbows of motor oil spilled by scooters and rickshaws,
silver sparks of rain skipping
across waxy banana leaves.
Every morning I’d wake to the krr-krr-krrk of Paati
helping Ma make breakfast in the kitchen,
grating slivers of coconut for a tangy chutney.