residual leg.
As healed as it ever will be.
Below my knee, above where my leg now ends,
a grotesque smiley mouth leers at me:
a C-shaped scar.
Looking at my uneven skin
exposed
hurts
worse than salting a fresh wound.
Closing my eyes, I turn
away.
Dr. Murali sings the praises of prostheses so enthusiastically,
it’s as if he’s encouraging
Ma and Pa to cut off their legs and replace them
with “marvelous” artificial limbs
that are “so much stronger” than our own.
Dr. Murali says, “We will give you a shrinker sock
to compress your limb
into a conical shape so it’ll fit easily into your prosthesis.
Wear it as much as you can over the next month
so your limb doesn’t become
dog-eared or bulbous.
Roll antiperspirant on the skin beneath your sock
so the area stays dry. Keep it clean.
We don’t want it getting infected and smelly.”
My cheeks burn with embarrassment,
as if I’ve been playing cricket in the heat.
Bad enough having Jim
see this part of me, naked,
without imagining it
dog-eared, bulbous,
stinking, swollen, disgusting.
Jim kneels by my foot
so close I could rest my chin on his golden head.
“Hey there.” Jim’s normally buoyant voice is soft.
One of his knuckles, rough as a cat’s tongue,
brushes against my inner thigh
as he helps me pull on my “shrinker sock.”
His accidental touch tickles,
sending an uncomfortable flutter through my stomach.
“Veda? I’ll make you a leg you can dance on.”
I feel dizzy as if I’d stood up too fast,
though I get up slowly on my crutches.
Dizzy at the sight of him kneeling by my foot,
dizzy at the thought of Jim and me alone in his office,
his dazzling eyes watching me dance
on the leg he’s promised he’ll make me.
IN
the
EYE
I’m at the table finishing my homework
when I glimpse Paati in our kitchen
wiping beads of sweat off her brow
with the edge of her white sari.
“Paati, let me help.”
“I was going to make you some uppuma.”
“I’ll cook my own snack. You do too much for someone your age.
Chandra’s grandmother sits in front of the TV all day.”