Surrealism

Heau-Beau and Zivania are walking arm-in-arm, ambling along the shore. Giggling and kissing, the air pregnant with lusty possibilities. Zephyr breeze, twinkling skies. Horny boy, horny girl. Does the venue even matter? (In practice, yes. In reveries, no.) 'Madam open right eye'. Plonk goes the eye drop. 'Madam please shut your eye and keep it closed. Haubauji fidget mat kariye.' Heau-Beau and Zivania are now in a rrrrrrrrompy-chompy situation, heavy breathing, the inescapable sensation of sexual heat...'Madam left eye now.' Plonk! Hmmm hehehe tralalalaa.......'Madam please come to the operating table'. Already? Schieze!

Until the moment I lay on the table I was entertaining myself with sexual dreams coz a. I can, b. I haven't had any in a month and Z's too much of a prude to even tell me he's missing it on email or over the phone and c. I dunno about you but sex really relaxes me. Fortunately or unfortunately my reveries were a bit too effective in helping me escape impending doom because the time that I should have spent preparing for the battle ahead, I spent battling with Z in bed। I have a great faculty for lusty dreams, actually daydreams per se. In fact it is very rare for me to be aware of my immediate surroundings at any given point of time, most of the times I'm daydreaming about power, glory, sex, sacrifice and heroism. None of which that I presently have. Thin-ness, for instance. Hobo the Great. Hobo the Anorexic. Hobo the Superlatively bright Supermodel. Hobo the Oscar-winning Director cum Scriptwriter cum Debutante Actress. Hobo the Epic Epigram Generator. Hobo the Multiple Award Winning Author. Hobo the 28-yr old Widow and Single Mother. Hobo the Rrrrrrompy-chompy. Hobo the Rrrrrompy-chompy with Pierce Brosnan, specifically. Hobo the Heroic Social Activist. Hobo the Crafty Stateswoman. Hobo the Solution to the Middle East. Hobo the Battler of Misogyny. Hobo the Battler of Racism. Hobo the Defiant Princess of an Era Past. Hobo the New Moses. Hobo the Conserver of Shiv Shakti. Hobo the Magnificent. So many Hobos but it is the same ole' same ole' hobo. Sigh.........me and my Technicolor Dreamcoat. In tatters.

Surgery went fine, thanks for asking people. Now I can see again too. But the surgery experience was surreal and the strangeness, out-of-bodiness of it will remain with me forever. Perhaps because it's an elective surgery or maybe because it's such an ubiquitous one by now, I was in serious denial about the fact that cosmetic or not, it's surgery. Surgery means hospitals, embarrassing hospital couture and PAIN. Post-Operative Pain and Whilst-Operative Bafflement. I was fully awake and aware during the surgery. Maybe I was again romping through a raunchy reverie when the surgeon had explained the procedure to me, but that element, my cognizance of the entire moment came as a surprise to me. And it was more so weird since I could see everything, I could hear everything, I could even smell the laser but I couldn't feel anything. Now I had something called Surface Ablation done to my eye and I won't get in to the whys or hows of it but suffice to say it involves scraping the corneal tissue. That meant the surgeon brings a small knife/blade down to my eye and literally scrapes away corneal tissue. Now even though I couldn't feel the pain, I was still arguably sensate. I expected to feel pain.


I wished they'd strap my legs, I'd wished someone would hold my hand. More than anything else I'd wished the surgeons would talk to me through the surgery. After the right eye, after much flinching (the eye not the body) and after being taken by surprise by the crackling sound and pungent smell of the laser, I requested the good doctor to keep me posted on everything being done to my eye so I can prepare myself. So that I can harness my yogic energies and foster some communication between my palpitating heart, my sweaty hands, my nervous eye, my cognizant brain, my frozen legs and my panic stricken inner singer, to calm down. We all had a mighty terrified caucus in my head and decided the best course of action is to ignore my surroundings and to sing. So I sang. I sang 'Relax!', the new song by Mika. I sang 'Tangerine' by Led Zepellin. I sang 'Beast of Burden' by the Rolling Stones. But most effectively I sang 'Chak de Phattey' by Kailash Kher.


Then a faraway inter-galactic uber-lord kind of voice said, 'Good girl, now get up and walk out to the post-op room and rest for two hours'. And I thought to myself, 'Are you fucking kidding me?!?! You want me to walk to another room after getting surgery on my eyes?!?!'. He did. I did. The good nurse ensured I paid my respect to the wall by lightly touching it instead of walking head on in to it as a drug and booze addled hobo would have, and has, done. I lay down on the bed and discerned these light footsteps that entered the room followed by a delicious musky smell. 'Pa.....do I look the same?' He stroked my cheek and I new it was Papa. He said, 'Sleep betoo, just sleep and it will all be alright'. I yawned, shifted around lazily seeking the right mattress slump to sink in to and dozed off peacefully. The next 3 days were miserable, my eyes burned and they ached and even though I spent most of my time hopped up on painkillers, relief never knocked on my eyes to say 'Shhh......' or 'Hi'. Luckily Ma kept talking me through it, kept administering the eye drops when necessary and heartily kept telling me how much she disapproved of this surgery. :) Ma toh Ma hoti hai. 'Whichever part of the body is operated on, consider it forever weakened and inferior to the God-given state. I don't care whether it's a routine surgery, it's only 25 years old and that's the data we have, I don't want my child to suffer say 40 years from now for her vanity at 20.' No pun intended Ma, but let's see what happens. :)