If Bodies Of Their Own Heal Poem by Aniruddha Pathak

I

Two scores of ripe years ere, remember I,
At shower, shaving mirror, shaping hair,
Bending elbow when turned annoying nigh,
I wonder when, how my hurt hushed in there
Unknown to me, as seasons oft set in
Early or late, till one day forced are we
To tune into the change never so keen;
But more than pain, the illness annoyed me.

For, the medic I met, cool as was I,
But more sure, called it a tennis elbow,
Me in protest, not having played the game,

I laughed a suppress’d laugh, respectfully,
The doc unmoved as e’er, letting me know:
Call it any a name, would pain the same.

II

Prescribes he a pain pacifying drug.
Not kind to drugging messengers of pain,
And a believer in root cause, I shrug,
The pain, not being un-seasonal rain,
Persists, slowly gaining intensity,
The devil in doc feels vindicated,
Looking kind, stern-eyed still, he nods at me,
The counsel my own leaves me defeated!

O’er-ruled, a rebel on knees, out elbowed,
Bowed to submission, folding my left sleeve,
I look as if explanation was owed,

He looked up a stern verdict to give:
There’s no escape the seed’s once duly sowed,
Whatso disease decides you shall receive.

III

In was called nursing help, led like a cow
To an in-house slay house, I all but thought,
The wise me cursing the rebel me now,
And yet followed— in worse of worries wrought;
Thinking of thermal waves— the least an hour
A day; relief if there be oh, could worse
Be than the pain, headache should it hover,
I learn with it to live —in silence nurse.

And when they thought changing course, it was time
To what if on wisdom on wane or wax,
But docs have reasons if or not in rhyme,

‘I need take a goodly look at your X-
Ray’; I eyed my arm, poor thing, caught in crime,
As if it were the bleeding knife or axe.

IV

‘No sign of malign growth’, the doc declared
Swanning into the spot I waited in,
Enough hints he favoured me as he aired,
‘Ah, what a kindly heart heaving within’!
I thought, his dire demeanour notstanding;
‘However’, his looks darkening somewhat,
‘See on left some growth in a soft ring,
‘I’ve reason to pin it in doubt than naught’.

I see naught else but my upper-arm bone,
Humerus as is called, but I’d like to
Say funny, the fun having too far gone!

But felt, silence vouches a good virtue
To one on wrong side of stick, painful bone;
I weighed in his weighty words in sharp hue.

V

‘Need a few more searching tests to be sure,
‘But what we see seems serious enough still’,
I knew, grin or grimace, I aught endure,
Yet unsure quite what of greater evil
Was: ailment or treatment of my elbow!
A vision of an endless dark tunnel
Flashes in mind; dark of course, no less dull,
Yon of all pain, something churned in my maw.

‘Take a course of killer tabs to start with,
‘While your elbow’s under my careful eyes’,
He said, tinkering bone like a blacksmith.

But pregnant with pain my swelling does rise,
Unknown liquid within like my close kith,
Guesses galore and a gag of surmise!

VI

‘We’ll aspirate the liquid’, he thence said,
‘If liquid goes, I hope the swelling too’;
My skin dulled he worked— large needle in aid,
And felt as if Everest looked dwarf in view.
A few days and liquid returns to base,
Returns the swelling too as it ere was,
No respite from inhospitable chase,
I wondered if karmas would catch my cause.

All through, pain but a minor irritant
Was, I lived normal life as did before,
If only I had avoided it all.

What though with all docs and drugs, my tenant
Of elbow cosy did stay put indoor—
In a comfy little cyst-made soft wall!

VII

My Healer, looking graver than e’er ere,
His cocky flair deserting never once,
Swirls his chair round— thro’ large window to stare,
As if to get inspired by Providence;
More dumb than mute, I curse my accursed fate.
‘I feel happy it has to be left hand’,
He declares; my mouth wide op— ajar gate,
‘May amputate it if we cannot mend’!

‘Irritating a bit, though it takes long,
‘Tuber, a sure fire, easy does get cured,
‘Soft tissue or bone; cancer I hope not it is’.

He attuned it out like a movie song,
Consoled me; assuming I was assured,
There comes cost estimate— his expertise.

VIII

Not hitting his wisdom home, I ask him:
‘Please, let me know it all— doctor to patient’,
Pleading as if guilty, now penitent,
Into nightmare had turned a dreary dream;
‘Suspect a graveyard of local infection,
‘A cyst has enveloped it like a fort,
‘Ah, look at Nature’s marvellous li’le action—
‘A compromise settlement out-of-court’!

To cut it short, pain visiting again,
The cyst was cut asunder to the roots,
And yet, tests when came, came with not a clue.

Not all in vain still, for, gone was the pain,
Gone was the cause, me left with bitter fruits—
A safeguard root treatment— tabs and pricks due!

I wonder should knowledge help or hinder,
In death, if not, burn bright like dry tinder.

IX

I oft feel, if he that treated me, knew
The mystery that human body is,
That it takes two hundred muscles, not few,
To take but one baby step with some ease;
That, body’s veins when stretched end to end nigh,
A pair of belts round earth’s bosom is made;
That, cells in a myriad of deluge when die,
An equal sum in even time gets bred.

Yet, nigh li’le is known of the universe
That lies within— as we know outer space,
And of ailing body? Oh, far too worse;

Ignorance still has pushed ahead apace.
Socrates knew, ‘he lone hath thinking mind
That knows: knowledge known shall e’er lag behind’.

And so, if we can let sleeping dogs lie,
Should we not let bodies heal—of drugs dry?
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This is a sequence of nine sonnets constituting one single
poem. But the last line of the preceding sonnet is not the first
line of the next sonnet; nor is the first line of the first sonnet,
the last line of the last sonnet; as is often the case. The first
seven sonnets are composed of an octave each, followed by a
pair of terza rima, that can be viewed as a sestet. The last
two sonnets (the eighth and the ninth) have an extra couplet
concluding the underlying feelings.
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- Sonnets | 03.11.12 |