Until late, visiting a hospital for taking an injection had been a nightmare for me. A hyperactive person from my childhood days, it was almost mandatory for me to get big wounds or scratches on my body. Then the death bell rings for me. Oh! No – the visit to the hospital to take the Tetanus Toxoid injection. I would gladly endure the pain from the wound but never the prick of the syringe.

My fear towards this “deadly device” developed when I was in third standard at a Kendriya Vidyalaya in Trivandrum. It happened once that we had a competition of long jump (with a difference) among friends from my neighbourhood. The task was jumping over my brother’s baby cycle.  We had allotted three attempts for each participant, in turns. Having excelled everyone is the first two rounds I was overjoyed. With confidence brimming in me, I jumped over the cycle while smiling to my friends. I had no clue if I had jumped over the bicycle or it had jumped over me.  My confidence and pride gifted me bruises all over my body and a deep cut on my left leg. Now, it was time to visit the MH (military hospital). I tried crying, coaxing and cajoling my father against this idea of his, for no use.

At the MH, we were directed to the dressing room, where when I entered the sight that caught my glance was a nurse dressed in white, sucking blood from an old man’s veins. “Is she a witch in an angel’s apparel?” I thought. No, I will not let her do the same to me. The second she called out my name, I clutched on to my father’s arms. He pushed me towards her. “You too Papa!” I felt like yelling out. “Run Samyukta, run.” Someone deep within me was asking me to fly off from the place. I ran helter-shelter in the big hall and then out of it into the large corridors, with my father and the nurse running behind me (I was into sports at school, you know.) Eventually the authorities were convinced to drop the idea of TT and prescribed me some medicine. I was saved from the syringe, though not from my father’s scolding.  Later on, at many occasions I had to undergo the trauma of the syringe, as my father had grown more careful with me, leaving me no chance to run off.

The next I created a huge tamasha was when I was in Lucknow. I was in my sixth standard. It was a pleasant evening, which turned out to the contrary later on.  It was a weekend and I was in the park, with friends. Some dispute occurred between my friends and one pushed the swing at the other, which he reverted very carefully just to hit upon my face. Yet another wound, though for no fault of mine. Again, Papa was standing tall near me with his scolding and an eventual TT solution.  Now time for hospital visit and all the dread and pain.

However prepared I go to the hospital (smaller than the Trivandrum one); I treble at the sight of the syringe. The names of all the gods ran to my mind as if I were standing face to face with death. The nurse was ready with the syringe to tuck it into my flesh. “How cruel!” When you are in real pain, you would cry in your mother tongue and I proved it. “Ayyooooooo!” I cried out, “Someone please help me.”  Few youngsters, on their way to some outing for the weekend, were passing in front of the hospital. Among them were some Keralites who were taken aback by the cries of a girl in Malayalam. They ran into the hospital, possibly thinking of some real danger to some Malayalee girl, who might not know Hindi.

Just as they entered the dressing room, they saw me held tightly by two nurses and my own dear father, with another nurse holding the syringe upright in her hands. I seemed like some film heroine held by the villains’ team. “Poor me.” The people burst into laughter, leaving out a deep sigh of relief. I felt very sad. Taking this opportunity, the nurse inserted the medicine into my body. I cried again. The guys opened out into laughter, once more. I felt sadder. The whole day, back from the hospital I kept on weeping. Nothing could console me. Much more than the pain of the syringe, it was the mocking that I could not stand.

After the incident, whenever I had to visit the hospital for a TT injection. I would try remembering the incident and gather my whole courage. It seemed like I was preparing myself for the battlefront. After reaching home I would cry sympathizing myself, but not in the public after that.

Now when I go to the hospital for any sort of injections, I would be all smiles, thinking of my adventures with this device in my childhood. J

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