Seven Days

I didn’t know the constant burning was a kind of meditation.

The flower-shaped scar on my knee doesn’t bite anymore when I go up or down the stairs. What happened was- I was twelve, I had untied laces, I tripped. Seconds into impact, warm blood spread on my knee like jam on bread. It was humbling how a minor injury brought with it a whole chorus of wails.

If I close my eyes, I can still feel the hot footpath sizzling into soft flesh. The tear stains on my crumbling face. The immediate sting of Dettol on the coin-sized site. The betraying cool of the antiseptic and the hankie-gauze’s throbbing pressure. I didn’t know that the constant burning was a kind of meditation.

The wound pinched and tugged surrounding healthy skin whenever I stood up or sat down. But in a week’s time, scab-picking season arrived. No longer in pain, I marveled at the rough patching of dried blood clots. It was amazing to watch the dead crust fall off completely. Beneath it bloomed beautiful bubble-gum gloss. Becoming, not quite as giving.

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