That prickly prick

The first time I saw that sharp, sparkling thing, I didn’t know what they were doing. As they inserted that never-before-seen object into my body, its fluid passing slowly through my veins scintillating

those valves and nooks it had never before made its way through, half of my body was left paralysed. And then high-pitched shrieks filled the silence of the room, shrieks so loud their frequency could have shattered the glass. This was my first encounter with the prickly prick.

“It’s okay. Mummy’s here.” A soothing sound made its way through my ear-piercing shrieks. “Shh… you’re my brave, little boy. It doesn’t hurt much, does it?” As she held me close to her heart and sang those oh-so-familiar words, the pain began receding. My fluttering eyelids closed, and my wailing all but stopped. As I took a ride in dreamland, I knew that that first-ever prickly prick of mine wasn’t my last, that there were many such pricks that would pierce my little body with no remorse, pricks not even the thickest of armour could shield off.

•••

I knew I should have never done that. I knew that I was being hasty. Just when everything was done, I realised that I had forgotten my helmet. I ran up a flight of stairs and BAM! I lost control and hit my head on the metal baluster.

“Steady now,” the health assistant said as he cleaned the wound on my head. It seemed like steady was everyone’s favourite word, except mine. I knew my mother was giving me her I-told-you-so look. She sat across me, contemplating, rehearsing and re-rehearsing things she was going to make me listen to and follow.

It’s all because of that stupid helmet, I told myself over and over again. But as I saw the health assistant take out a brand-new needle from his medical kit, all I wanted to do was put that same, stupid helmet on and run.

“Be brave now,” my mother said in a stern voice.

They had first pricked me on my leg and I had been brave. Then my right hand, left hand, you name it, and I had been very brave. And now it was my head and I was supposed to be brave.

“This will hurt a little, okay?”

said the health assistant smiling.

‘A little’ was an understatement though, I knew.

“It’s okay. Mummy’s here.” And before I, a brave young man, could get embarrassed with those simple words, the needle did its magic.

•••

The beeping sounds of machines and doors swinging; these are the only sounds I have been hearing for the last few days. Twice a day, I hear the familiar sounds of footsteps coming close to my bed, and then I try to concentrate on listening to the needle piercing through my body. But I never hear anything. The needles always silently make their way, and now, they even don’t hurt. I try to remember the prickly pricks of those needles, the pain they had caused me. I had thought that there was nothing as painful as the pain a single prick can cause.

But I was wrong. When I got an A- in my eighth grade exam instead of an A, it pricked me worse. And when I lost my first love, the pain was so bad that I ended up crying in my mother’s arms.

“It hurts so much, mummy,”

I had said between my loud sobs.

“She doesn’t love me.” I had fumbled with these words over and over again. “It’s okay. Mummy’s here,” my mother had replied.

“But I don’t want you. I want her.” The pain of unrequited love ran deep into my heart, or so I had thought. But I was wrong again.

When I had to cut my hair short for the stitches to be done properly on my head, my head looked so bad that I had to stay home for over a month until my hair grew longer. Having to stay back home listening to my mother’s suggestions at every step was painful; the most painful time of my life.

I can hear the coughs now, loud and hoarse. I try to open my eyes but I can’t. They flutter for a while and close involuntarily. I can see a womanly figure sitting across me, hands fisted and face sober. ‘It’s okay. Mummy’s here,” I want her to say. But she remains silent. That figure walks to me and whispers in my ears, “Do you need anything, Grandpa?”

Grandpa? I try to open my eyes and see her. Who is she? And who am I? Where’s my mother? I breathe in heavily. I find it hard breathing.

Grandpa? I heave a sigh. I hear the continuous beeps. The man has stopped coughing. The raindrops have lost their way in the clouds. I try to remember my mother’s eyes as she sings a lullaby to me, her agony when I was first pierced with a prickly prick, her stern face when I made a mistake (and I made many mistakes). I remember her dancing the day

I got married, her playing with my kids. I remember her getting old and sick. And one day she was gone; the absence of her laughter so severe, the pain of it more acute than anything I had ever known.

I hear the familiar sounds of footsteps again. It’s time for those prickly pricks now. The sharpness cuts through the layers of my skin that have witnessed the innocence of my childhood, the mistakes of my youth and lamentation of my old age.

“Oh how it hurts him!” I hear my granddaughter cry. I remember carrying her and swaying her when she first had her share of a prickly prick.

It doesn’t hurt, I want to tell her, nothing hurts me now.

As my skin gets pierced, the fluids slowly move through my cranked veins. I want to fall asleep now, never to wake up again. No more pricks now, no more heartache, no more mistakes, and no more trivial acts of bravery. The beeping sounds slowly fade away, doors have stopped swinging. Everything is still, silent. And then, I hear a voice.

“It’s okay. Mummy’s here.”

- Barsha Chitrakar