The frown remains, and this is unusual for this famously light-hearted and care-free village doctor. The bruises and fractures of his patient cover her body from head to foot. A young woman, newly married into a richer family here in the village, Dr. Krishna knows that her family is pleased with the arrangement and their social advancement. To anyone who bothers to take interest, her body tells a very different tale.
"I am afraid he will kill me," she softly weeps.
"He may," the good doctor agrees without lying, "Is there anything your own family can do to stay his heavy hand?"
"They see nothing. They choose to see nothing and are delighted that my husband is well known and rich by our standards," she explains.
This behaviour was not uncommon, he thinks, examining the damage, tending to anything that he can heal. He would kiss the bruises if he thought that he profession would allow it: it did not.
"A wise woman caught in your same predicament had some advice. If you like, i could share it with you," he offers. The silence in the little room he takes as agreement. Clearing his throat, he says, "If you can master your tongue, not only do you run less risk of being beaten, but perhaps you may even, one day, make your husband better, said the unfortunate woman who died peacefully much later in life."
The silence persists, yet he notes the slow nod of the young woman, whose tears have now subsided.
"Yes, when i was a girl my grandmother told me to pray for family, friends and neighbours, but especially for those people i did not like, or feared. She told me that these people needed more compassion because they themselves were lost on dark, unloving roads leading to even darker ends. Now i understand that wonderful woman who i loved like my own mother. No, i shall not provoke him, rather i shall demonstrate daily my courage and faith in a man's transformation."
Now bandaged up, the woman thanks the doctor, picks up her groceries and returns home. Dr. Krishna's frown finally lifts as he shows her out. Such is village life, he thinks, such is the lot of men everywhere who suffer in confusion. He blesses the newlyweds both with a silent prayer.
"I am afraid he will kill me," she softly weeps.
"He may," the good doctor agrees without lying, "Is there anything your own family can do to stay his heavy hand?"
"They see nothing. They choose to see nothing and are delighted that my husband is well known and rich by our standards," she explains.
This behaviour was not uncommon, he thinks, examining the damage, tending to anything that he can heal. He would kiss the bruises if he thought that he profession would allow it: it did not.
"A wise woman caught in your same predicament had some advice. If you like, i could share it with you," he offers. The silence in the little room he takes as agreement. Clearing his throat, he says, "If you can master your tongue, not only do you run less risk of being beaten, but perhaps you may even, one day, make your husband better, said the unfortunate woman who died peacefully much later in life."
The silence persists, yet he notes the slow nod of the young woman, whose tears have now subsided.
"Yes, when i was a girl my grandmother told me to pray for family, friends and neighbours, but especially for those people i did not like, or feared. She told me that these people needed more compassion because they themselves were lost on dark, unloving roads leading to even darker ends. Now i understand that wonderful woman who i loved like my own mother. No, i shall not provoke him, rather i shall demonstrate daily my courage and faith in a man's transformation."
Now bandaged up, the woman thanks the doctor, picks up her groceries and returns home. Dr. Krishna's frown finally lifts as he shows her out. Such is village life, he thinks, such is the lot of men everywhere who suffer in confusion. He blesses the newlyweds both with a silent prayer.
No comments:
Post a Comment