I woke up with my arms swollen to twice their size. Blisters as big as a full grown tangerines on my shoulders , having momentarily forgotten due to the sedation I thought I had been wearing a dress with voluptous frills. Then it came to me - the shrieks of terror from my mother, the ice bath I was plunged into , and my skin- as red as the sun before it waves goodbye. My mind was foggy, I knew I had been sedated otherwise the terrible pain would not have let me breathe - let alone think. In the corner of the room my mother was dozing off with her head rested against the wall. She was in a truly unkempt state, hair not combed eyes sunken and dark as if something terrible had occured all of a sudden.
I was eight years old , with a gummy smile and eyes always sparkling with mischief. Always being scolded by my mother , always falling in trouble. That day however, I wasn't doing anything worrisome. I was drawing a portrait of myself with my new pack of crayons. Once I was done using all the colours on my drawing I ran to show it to my mother. That's when it occured-the accident. It all happened in a matter of seconds, the sudden collision with Malati aunty our househelp carrying a vessel full of boiling water(because the geyser was not working) . The scalding water falling on me drenching my top half. Both of us were speechless for a while , then perhaps because the pain was too much my senses went numb. My mother , horrified picked me up and started rubbing ice all over me , tears leaving the corners of her eyes. My drawing was soaked, my golden hair and pink pupils no one payed heed to it. I asked my mother why she was crying, that I was alright but she saw how my skin had turned a bright red as if I had been thrashed all over and she couldn't stop her tears. I was rushed to the hospital and admitted immediately for treatment. The doctors said they would have to operate on my skin to remove the upper layers of burnt epidermis. I wouldn't be able
to attend school for 3 months. I was eight years old, 25 percent of my body was burnt.
I went through regular procedures of scaling , My face was unrecognisable and covered with blisters . My mother is truly one of God's strongest soldiers because she would sit in my hospital room - morning to night, smiling at the burnt, blistered face of her daughter as if I was the most beautiful baby girl, and I know to her I was. It was difficult for my father to see me like that and pretend everything was fine so he would visit me sometimes. After a while I would see his eyes start to water , that's when he would leave making some excuse. My mother would tie my hair in pigtails and feed me food she had cooked and brought from home. There was one nurse who would dress my wounds in the evening , she used to call me Barbie whenever I wore my hair in pigtails . I was fond of that name it made me feel pretty . The doctor had advised my parents to remove all mirrors from my room after my discharge. After a month and a half of treatment , I was free to go home. I was prescribed 3 months of bed rest. My parents removed all mirrors from my room. For the following two years of my life, I did not know what I looked like. while I was healing at home , my mom would take pictures of me on our old digital camera. Her eyes would sparkle every time I wore a new dress, or painted my nails or did my hair at home just for myself. I truly believed then that I must be pretty like a flower , with the way her eyes lit up when she saw me. The skin on my hands said otherwise , they were scaly and in some places there was a raw fleshy tint. I had a choice then - I could choose to believe either my mother's sparkling eyes or the stares of concern I would get from some visitors. In the end I decided to believe my mother. I joined school after 3 months, my classmates were happy to have me back. We were all kids then and I got my share of insensitive questions but they never made me feel ugly or small. I still avoided mirrors like the plague , fearing that the image I had of myself in my mind would shatter. Years passed and I learnt how truly fluid the concept of beauty is. This one accident had changed the way people looked at me and the way I looked at myself. In the end it is a choice.
Now I am a grown woman of 20, I have had many people in my life come and go. It took me long to realise that the mirror doesn't tell you how you look. You are a mixture of all the people who have loved you and the love you have for yourself. After the intense scaling sessions, my skin is still uneven with scars and my lips do not meet in a beautiful bow like everyone else's does but theyvare beautiful in the kind of way a wilted flower is - still a flower. I get questions about my scars every now and then. In all these years I have learnt to distinguish between genuine curiosity and fake concern. I can look in the mirror and see myself as my mother does.
The tragedy of life is that we spend most of it not knowing what we truly look like. You will never know how many times someone found a part of you so captivating that they never expressed it. Even the parts of you, that you despise. The way a strand of your hair curls up perfectly to your chest , the way your iris catches the light , the furrow that appears between your brows when you think too hard , the scars that look like constellations, the stretch marks on your arms striking as God's lightning. All this love you will never know. I have chosen to surround myself with people who remind me how beautiful life can be even in disaster , and so however much disfigured, I still am the most beautiful woman. This is a choice I've made and to live with that truth is my happily ever after.
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