Wired Up

A few days ago I got to fulfill a long-standing desire: sticking my tongue out at a doctor, in his office. The desire, when it started, didn’t feature a doctor specifically. It merely entailed being rude to someone on their own turf; someone senior. It is something I have harbored since childhood; ever since my parents, in the course of their parenting duties, told me it was rude, wrong and not the done thing. It so happened that a doctor happened to be handy, and I seized the opportunity with both hands.
Now it so happened – and it can happen to the best of us – that I was in need of a doctor’s services. Nothing major, just an electrical accident, and I don’t really mean the shocking kind.
Before we go any further, I must give you some background on this. It all began many years ago, when I chose electrical studies as an elective in school. Don’t ask. The point was to learn how circuits and gadgets work, and be capable of fixing small electrical glitches in and around the house without having to reach for the phone book, and looking under “E” for electrician. Like changing a light bulb, attaching severed wires, that sort of thing. I learnt quite a bit in that course, finishing in the top 3 in a class of 4.
So when many years later (I’m now talking about a few minutes just prior to the escapade I’m now chronicling) I came up against a reading lamp that needed a new plug, I felt equipped and empowered. I moseyed down to the hardware store, and picked up one after a lengthy discussion with the storekeeper on “amps” and “Earthing” and “Phillips screwdrivers” and “line testers”. I would like to believe he found me quite knowledgeable on the aforementioned subjects, though his deadpan face would have shamed a seasoned poker player. Anyway, no accident so far.
I got down to the ‘fixing’ bit of the exercise: unscrewed the defective plug and separated it from the wire, then opened up the new plug. That’s when I realized that the sleeve cutter I had would not cut it. So after a quick mental debate on the pros and cons of expending energy in getting up for a knife or a blade to separate the insulation from the wire, I decided my teeth would do.
The plastic sleeve of the green wire came off without too mush of a fuss. The sleeve of the yellow wire protested momentarily, but soon bowed to the pressure. The red wire was adamant. And as we wrestled, the wire and I, I realized I’d underestimated its obstinacy and its determination to fight off any advances my jaw might make. After a few seconds of intense negotiations -- through gritted teeth on my end -- it found itself losing the argument, and took one parting shot. As the portion of the sleeve between my teeth came away, it brought with it a few strands of the fibrous metal that it houses. These strands, annoyed at being so rudely exposed to an alien atmosphere, and seeking to rectify said exposure, drove deep into my tongue, which was watching the proceedings with rapt attention.
It hurt. There was no blood, and I could distinctly feel the end of the wire embedded into my tongue if I ran my tongue against the teeth on my upper jaw. I tried looking in the mirror, and using my fingers to pull the intruder out. No Cigar!
And that’s how I found myself visiting the white-coated gent with a string of alphabets after his name. He listened with rapt attention to my tale, and barely managed to hide the smirk on his face, as he no doubt thought: “What a moron!”
That smirk I was so certain he was hiding did the trick. I was no peeved. He had no right to judge. It could have happened to anyone.
So as he proceeded to examine my punctured oral muscle with a magnifying glass under a bright light, and ran a rubber-gloved finger to determine the exact position of the offending wire, the long-suppressed member of my mental “To Do” list get a check against it.
I stuck my tongue out at him, and kept it there for a good 3 minutes, as he wielded forceps and tongs to return my tongue to its original, unadulterated state. For three minutes, I cocked a snook at a doctor, in his office.
And if you ask me, the pain and the momentary discomfort were absolutely worth it.

Past Perfect

Nothing haunts us with more ferocity and elicits more horror that the ghost of our past. Those memories bind us more securely than the chains that adorn the August members of the shadow-realm. There is no escape; no exorcism that will free us, no fire that will ease the cold chill that billow towards us in a constant draft, no salve that will erase the scars left on the soul.