The 11th Commandment

I pamper my right leg, cos it was the victim of a surgery. My left leg grinned and bore this partisan attitude for three years. But, like the saying goes, the smallest worm will turn being trod upon. A week back, the left leg did the true Left act. It struck work. Enough was enough, it seemed to say. It protested – at the knee.

I was left with no choice but to concede to its immediate demands. I fed it with Ibubrufen, massaged it with kottanchukkadhi in the morning, Volini in the evening; then adorned it with a knee cap - the best and the prettiest one in the market. And to make up for the ill treatment of two years, I honoured it with a gold coloured tripod walking stick with a smart black handle.

And of course a week of complete rest and relaxation – a week as free as I could possibly make it from the unenviable task of load bearing, rather bearing this load.

A week done and the left leg seemed to be in a mood to withdraw the protest. But I continued to treat it gingerly. Can’t afford to antagonize it. The local bandh culture can be catching.

In the meanwhile, I’d been putting off an interview with a prospective employer on account of my striking leg. Yesterday, I called him up and told him I’ll be there at 10 am. Then I told Sunny about the interview.

He was horrified. ”You are making a mistake if you think that leg of yours is going to be happy with a week’s vacation. You better extend it for another week”

“No way”, I said. “I know my leg better. See”, I said bending it and straightening it to show how perfectly pliant my knee was.

“Ok, if you must go, I’ll come with you”, said Sunny.

“No way”, I said indignantly. “I’m perfectly capable of taking care of me and my leg”.

He looked undecided for a moment, and then asked, anxiously “You sure?”

“Absolutely”.

“OK then”, he said looking worried. “At least take the walking stick”

“What?” I exclaimed shocked. “I’m wearing my new Biba Anarkali salwar suit. Catch me going around with a walking stick to spoil the impact. You want the whole world to think that I’m handicapped or something?”

He was silent after that.

And I went, Biba and all. I was dropped off at the gate of the institution. I walked down the paved path, marveling at how I keep bouncing back after each setback at the health front. Am not sure if I whispered my usual “thank you, God” after this thought.

I reached the veranda.

There was only a low step leading to the veranda from the paved compound. Old habits die hard, and as had been my habit for the past three years, I placed my left leg on the step and put my whole weight on to it while I hoisted my torso up in the act of placing my right leg on the veranda.

The left leg, true to its name, protested. And violently. I heard a double click in my knee followed by a shooting blinding pain that left me gasping.

A uniformed lady was swabbing the granite floor. She saw me, dropped her swab and ran to me help, calling out to another uniformed lady down the veranda. With one on each side, I was helped to the nearest chair.

So much for the impact of my new, anarkali Biba Salwar suit!

As I sat there waiting for the receptionist to be informed of my arrival, I found myself wondering why “Obey thy husband’ was not one of the commandments. Probably, because it would then be not Ten Commandment but Eleven Commandments. Perhaps the former sounds better though the latter would have made the Decalogue a more comprehensive set of precepts.