Sheruvala

When I came to, I was in the Foundation’s hospital with Dharma by my side.

She told me I had been out for the count for two days, and then she called Dr. Nadeem, who had been rushed in from Lunkaransar to oversee my treatment so it must have been bad. He came in and told me in his cut and dry way (he had been in the army and did not believe in mollycoddling patients) that I would survive, many cuts and bruises but nothing broken, some concussion that would sort itself out, and I could expect to be in considerable pain for which he would give me something but not for too long because there was a point beyond which the danger of addiction to painkillers trumped the relief they provided.

I stayed in a liminal state for a few more days, alternating between sleep and a dazed consciousness, barely aware of my many visitors, until Dr. Nadeem walked in and said, OK, that’s enough of painkillers, now just endure the pain.

“It’s too early, Dr. Nadeem,” I pleaded, hoping to postpone the inevitable by a day.

“No, it is not,” he responded. “How will you know that you are getting better, or whether it is OK to move your arm in a full circle? It is the pain that tells you. Don’t forget, pain is not the problem, it is merely an indicator. Addressing it does not make you better. In fact, if anything, it prolongs your recovery.”

“OK, Dr. Nadeem, I will try.”

It was about then that Dharma, who would overnight in the hospital to see to my care, told me, “I need to speak to you about something.”

I turned towards her wondering why her tone was aggressive and her eyes blazing with rage, she had been kindness and concern personified until then.

“Are you expecting a thank you from me, Rahul?” she said. “What were you thinking when you did that? What the bloody f—k were you thinking?”

Excuse me, did I hear that correctly?

“What did you think?” she continued. “That I am some poor woman in need of masterly masculine protection? That I couldn’t handle some moron flying off the handle on my own and needed you to take over?”.

Bitch, I remember thinking but not having the courage to say, you do know that I took one hell of a thrashing for you, don’t you? And yes, I do expect a thank you, it’s a minimum if you ask me, though I know you have gone far beyond that in the way you have cared for me post the incident.

She went on, “The upfront misogynists I can manage, they are everywhere, and one just has to deal with them and get on with it. It’s the hidden ones, who are soft and mild and sensitive on the outside but, deep within, are hardcore MCPs, who do serious damage to the women’s movement.”

Oh wonderful, is she referring to me? So, I am now a male chauvinist pig and a threat to the planet’s three billion plus women?

She continued with a feminist monologue that made little sense to me, with multiple usage of words like ‘agency’ and ‘narrative’, and I glazed over and let my mind wander. The Dream Team was playing basketball at the Barcelona Olympics, and I became a part of it, getting on to court with Barkley, Jordan, Ewing, and Stockton, and dominating a game against Angola or Croatia, I forget which.

It was when I was attempting a three-pointer, with Stockton providing the shield and Pippen, who had been subbed on, the decoy, that I was jerked back to the here and now.

“You’re not listening, are you?” she said.

“I am, I am,” I lied.

“Well, what do you have to say?”

By then, my head was throbbing – I was having a difficult time dealing with the pain without painkillers, and being at the receiving end of a long diatribe was not helping. I think that, in my own quiet way, I was ready to burst.

“Here is what I have to say, Dharma,” I said. “Do you see this face?”

And I pointed both my index fingers at my head.

“I know that it is not particularly attractive, and it will be less so once the cuts and bruises from the beating settle into scars. But I like to occasionally look at it in a mirror, and it is important for me to be OK with what I see.

I don’t know whether I qualify for the labels that you have conferred upon me – hidden MCP, closet misogynist, whatever – I can’t claim to understand them.

But I do know that, if I had not got up when I did at that time, I would not have been OK with the view when I looked at myself in a mirror.”

She looked at me, her eyes softening a little, and she shook her head in disbelief and said something under her breath that sounded like ‘bloody men’.

And I looked at her. The angry pose was gone, and the kinder, what-do-I-do-with-this-stupid-fellow demeanour that replaced it was weirdly attractive.

What’s happening here, I thought to myself.

“Don’t try to divert my attention with your sweet talk, Mr. Rahul, because that just makes you more of an MCP in my eyes,” she told me. “And don’t ever do what you did that day again. It was stupid and dangerous.”

“I bloody well will,” I responded, deciding that what the hell, just go out and say it, I had had enough of pussyfooting around. “Every damn time!”

She responded with a snorted ‘Hah!’, and I knew that, with that exchange, our relationship was somehow on a different plane.