Salad

More scared than to undergo operation was having to showcase my appendage of external member to nurses and sisters. The very thought of losing privacy of my private part became a defeated prerogative from me. When I was given the surgical gown to put on I could feel the lightness of my body weight. The touch of cotton to my skin sent a thrilling amativeness of eroticism. The hanging fruits started to change the shape. The blooming of foreskin, stretching of prepuce, and the dangling pouch construed to an imperfect salad of banana and jackfruit. The heart was pounding fast as ears blushed and bloodshot eyes drooped. In the groin salad was ready to serve perpendicular to me. I waited pathetically and weak.

A nurse came and signaled to follow her. Underneath my bare feet I could feel the cold tiles drawing my body heat. Had I jumped up and down with my two fists clinging each other in a warm up action, any patients in the ward would have forgotten they were in the ward. I would have rather wanted them to shout my name in chorus. I could try my best, defeat the opponent and hear another few rounds of my name hailed in triumph. I would raise my hands, show them the gesture of gratitude and bow my head for their support. Few people would come inside the ring and drag the unconscious opponent for the first aid treatment in a nearby hospital. But the reality was different. A moving salad was nearing the operation theatre and no opponent was fighting with me. There would not be people cheering my name but only the patients moaning from pain. Nobody would be unconscious but only me. I diverted my thoughts on the salad and was little relieved to feel them shrunk in shape. The protrusion of cloth in the area had come closer to my body. I quickly wished further drastic decline of angle within few seconds.

Anesthesia was induced with my conscious on. The gown was ripped open as if skinning a dead cow, legs thrown apart and covered my face. My ears kept wide open to hear any giggles seeing my parts. Little relaxed I did not hear. But I wondered what if it chose to take its full shape and stood pointed towards the surgical lights. What if the injection further accelerated its growth? Or what if the same injection shrunk only to skin? I would not prefer both but rather be it in the normal form. And followed the series of thoughts: its variation of color and dimensions. I tried hard not to think of those but it comforted me to think my salad would not be preferable with the dish, so wished they had covered with the cloth.

As I laid next to so many other patients right after their surgeries I tried to look at them and imagined how their salads behaved with them. When I saw one old lady I tried to divert my thoughts but when a young woman was brought next to me, I continued to embrace the enjoyment of thoughts. When we met our eyes, I sheepishly smiled at her. She replied with the same smile and I knew how her salad behaved to her.