A Time to Dance(12)

            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.