I have a small wound in my hand. But it’s not that deep. Physically, when the skin or flesh is bruised, the body’s nerve endings are immediately activated. These nerves send sharp, burning, or throbbing signals to the brain. The pain may start as an intense sting, then deepen into a dull ache or pulse with every heartbeat. If the wound is pressed or moved, the pain sharpens again, reminding you of its presence. Swelling and inflammation add to the discomfort, making even gentle touches feel unbearable.
The context? My mother, while choreographing her dance and teaching us, moved her hand abruptly in a steady way, for a certain step, and I, standing beside her, endured the immediate effect. It hit me, her bangles oiled by her passionate dancing spree.
I stood there, plain for a moment before letting out a high-pitched cry- my head, refusing to even put its glance over that area. All I could do was grip it with the tightest fist I could ever form, quite well aware of the fact that all my four fingers tattooed the skin red beneath. It’s funny how I felt that a part of my arm just gave up living and staying attached to my glenoid cavity, like it just somehow decided to fall off. A celestial flash. Boom!
Just when my eyes reached the brink of breaking the surface tension, they decided to see the murder site finally. Have you ever tried to look at anything while your eyes glisten? It’s subtly fascinating. Isn’t it? Your eyes turn into mini microscopes. Just like how you can make one by putting a drop of water on your camera.
The difference? One drop of water kind of works, but when there’s a damn ocean swelling up, you are bound to be blind for some time. This inconspicuous illusion created by my vision balls cast me yonder, towards the oasis of a visible wound present amidst a huge desert of dermis. The pain made me believe that the area would now be dripping in ruby current and boomed beyond bounds. But what I beheld?
A tiny black spot and a slit, thinner than a hair strand. I rubbed my eyes hard to dry up the moisture and break the mini microscopes. But it was of no use. The crime scene strangely appeared to be a zone of order, as if the assassin erased all traces under a magic spell, but forgot to erase the effect of the murder, forgot to ease the pain. Everyone asked me to keep my hand under running tap water. The cacophony performed an alchemy with the throbbing pain, which somehow managed to match my intensified heartbeat, and my headache added to the trifecta!
I settled on removing the fog that was about to consume my senses. So I jerked it off and got back to dancing. But the torment laughed at my desperation to get rid of it. Performed less than a second and had no other choice than to leave the floor to actually water the soil from where the plant was uprooted.
My pals, driven by curiosity, came out to check on me. But what evidence would I show them? There was no sign of physical affliction. Still, I did. I lifted up my wrist and showed them. The exact place, which felt like a slaughter site to me, had no prominent effect upon them, as expected. I exclaimed, ‘It is paining like hell!’ To which they replied, “It’ll be alright. Come, get back to dancing.” Well, I don’t blame them. But I definitely realised how Gogh felt when he was ridiculed for his suffering, which apparently had no physical form.
I understand why Hemingway shot himself, why Virginia Woolf filled her pockets with stones and drowned herself in a river, why Plath sealed herself in a kitchen and poisoned herself with carbon monoxide, and why Yukio Mishima dignified himself with the act of Seppuku. I understand why Sylvia Plath succumbed to the warmth of her oven. Because, ostensibly, no one ever witnessed their wound. This world, containing billions of humans, had no place for them. They remained unseen throughout their existence. No one looked at their open wounds, which ached a trillion times more than what I endured. Because supposedly, something which isn’t visible doesn’t exist.
Not to mention, during the dance rehearsal, I got hit at the same spot multiple times but had no say. I withstood the onslaught with the fake vigour I fooled myself with. Then I remembered how the previous day, one of my contemporaries had the same fate as mine. She injured her lips, and the only thing that stood as a wall was the fact that her lips bled. Rendering her more… “care”. More attention. And trust me, that day must be the only day I regretted not breaking my bone.
I still have a wound in my hand. And it’s still not that deep.
If you ever get one, and it doesn’t bleed, trust me, find the nearest corner and weep.
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