My idea of extreme torture is ANYTHING that involves a needle piercing my skin. Including injections, of course. And alas! The quagmires I land up in with my non-predilection for this...
Recently, I landed up with a splinter in my middle finger after some cheerleading exercises with the shower handle. I removed most of it, but a tiny bit just stayed there without my knowledge. I did not go to the friendly (roll eyes) neighbourhood doc for some motherly advice (roll eyes again). A few days later, I realized that the black spot in my almost healed wound did not really look like a cute black eye caused by a well-aimed jab, but that it was actually some foreign object nestling in the warm folds of my tissues.
So off I went to the doctor, with mother dearest in tow, in case a needle came into play. And it did. And how!
Since I have carefully avoided the sight of that thin and deadly needle for some years now, the friendly neighbourhoood doctor decided to punish me with a tetanus shot. The word ‘injection’ resulted in the usual change of behaviour – from a sane 18-year-old, I suddenly became a terrorized chimp who curled up on one corner of the examining table and started letting out ear-splitting shrieks. To add to the frenzy, the doctor suggested that my skinny arms were perfect for her cruel technique. I resisted all attempts made by her to reach ANY part of my anatomy till she brought the house down too, with her shrieks overshadowing mine. Then I thrust my well-endowed posterior at her and descended on the examining table with the air of a person going to the gallows.
The shot was just a pinch, but for some reason, I had to hold my butt all the way home. It ached like crazy....on the opposite side. Newton’s Third Law, anyone?
And wily woman that she was, she made sure she kept the home fires burning. She looked at my tiny wound and told me to give it a fitting visarjan in warm water to make everything come out by itself. I duly complied with the instructions, only to land up with a black line enclosed by very fast-growing skin in a sea of yellow goop they call pus.
Two days later, I was back with my middle finger problem. I wanted to make my feelings towards her very evident, so I thrust my middle finger out at her in a manner that would have shocked any all-knowing college teacher. But this innocent fifty-something was blissfully unaware of the larger implications of my not-so-polite gesture.
Then she opened my cut again with ... you guessed right, a needle, and when I asked her if she wasn’t going to administer some anaesthetic before doing so, she had a fit. Of laughter.
It didn’t hurt as much as I thought, though I squeezed my mother to the point where she was almost unconscious. She just scraped away the hard skin and extracted a splinter from the aggrieved finger like it was a Paramvir Chakra being awarded to her.
And yes, she charged me like a hundred bucks for the exercise. Moral of the story – You ask for torture, you pay for it!