A bus screeches to a halt barely a foot away from me. There is commotion around -- all eyes are on me; passers-by rush to have a better look; drivers crane their necks, caught betwixt instinctive curiosity and cultivated anxiety to speed away from 'trouble.' Are these the few nanoseconds of fame Destiny had reserved for me?

Such cynical thoughts atleast imply I am alive and kicking! Hey, just a minute, the kicking part needs to be checked out -- I get up, walk across to the pavement and collapse in sheer exhaustion.

There is a babble of noise as a concerned crowd of people ask me if I am okay. I nod to show my consent. I point at my helmet and someone pulls it off... My lungs gasp at the fresh air. Somebody asks for my handkerchief and wraps it around my fingers. By the time I glance at it, it's just a blood-red rag. "Kannada gothilla [I don't know Kannada]," I speak my first words to indicate I can't speak the vernacular and, more importantly for the audience, that I haven't gone nuts or whatever it is that is supposed to happen under such trying circumstances.

The bike is neatly parked on the side, the keys thrust into my pocket. Some excited voices recite the number plate of the offending vehicle -- as usual, the entire sympathy is cornered by the bleeding party. I disappoint them with a swift closure on the issue -- my fault, don't bother. I throw a searching glance and murmur doctor; somebody gives me his shoulder and gently asks me if I can walk to the nursing home across the road. I hobble along, every step draining me.

The nursing home doesn't inspire too much confidence, the floor is being swept and everyone is sipping their morning cup of coffee. It's a small place with couple of wooden benches and a few beds. My helpful companions ask if anyone can bandage me; the compounder has to be cajoled a bit before he agrees to touch me. I ask if he's worried about it being a police case. No, he replies, he is worried that it's bit too complicated for him to handle. Now *that* worries me.

My left hand seems to be in perfect condition. I take out my mobile (so oft cursed for the heavy bills, it now proves its worth) and wave it to convince everyone that help will soon be on the way. That settles the matter and the compounder gets cracking with a bottle of tincture and a roll of bandage. I find it increasingly difficult to stay awake, as my body reacts to the blood loss. A sip of water, a couple of calls and some chit-chat centered around my fortunate survival helps me keep my eyes open. Half-an-hour flies before help arrives and whisks me away to a real hospital.

The doctor there quickly takes stock of the situation, opens the bandages and candidly mentions my fingers might be completely crushed. I am shoved into the X-ray room where the chap wants it done in all sorts of ways as if it were a lissome lass posing for a photo shoot; I howl in painful protest and the first suspicion that I maybe in for a long haul slips into my mind. As I limp back into the doctor's room, I hear him bark an irritated instruction...

"No, NO! Not here, take him to Minor OT."

OT -- *operation* theatre in layman's lingo -- is definitely a scary word for most of us who've never peeped into one. I picture myself lying on clean white sheets, red lights blinking outside the door, while a team of masked doctors dressed in green fiddle around with the entrails of my poor body. I start recollecting dramatic scenes of staple Bollywood fare where all 'operations' are deemed to be fatal unless averted by fervent musical prayers made to God by a sweetheart. Hopefully, the heavenly authorities will take into account my singularly single status if they notice the lack of such appeals on my behalf...

I lie on the operating table, feeling like a bakra (goat) about to be slaughtered; nurses keep darting in and out, surrounding me with more machinery and lights. As the doc ruthlessly swabs my wounds clean, I wince in pain but manage not to yell. An attendant holds my face other way so that I don't show any unwelcome curiosity into the goings-on. Suddenly, there is searing pain as if my skin is burning; I can feel the needle making a pattern on my finger. To put it mildly, getting sewn up is a strange experience for an average human being; I naively ask if some local anesthesia couldn't be used. The doctor flashes a benevolent smile: Do you think you'd be taking all this without one? I wonder about the frequent battles our rajahs indulged in, when the medical fraternity had to do without such things as anaesthetics. As minutes pass by, the anesthesia takes effect. My hand feels completely numb and I detachedly watch the nurses passing on increasingly dangerous looking instruments to the surgeon.

Finally, curiosity gets the better of me and I ask if I can take a look. I have seen enough gory stuff on the telly, my own mess shouldn't be tough. The doctor acquiesces but I find the sight unbearable. That's taken as a cue for a stern scolding on reckless driving habits, the incredible pace of life among young techies and how they mistake desi highways for US freeways.

I attempt a defence by claiming I've not ventured across the borders for almost two years and feebly contemplate if mentioning the California good driver's discount I used to get on my insurance premium would be a wise idea. Ouch! I feel the prodding needle tip on my finger nail; the doc flatly informs me they are extracting the finger nails that have been crushed. If only they had some gadget to read my thoughts, they'd have seen a third degree torture chamber from a war movie on the flickering screen.

After an agonizingly long hour that seems like eternity, the doc is done. Gotta hand it to him, patiently working on blood-soaked mutilated fingers, cutting human tissue, making fine sutures under the glaring lights -- almost artistic, if I may say so. I decline the offer to be kept under observation, preferring to rest at home.

Alas, a couple of neatly bandaged fingers neither evokes too many visitors or much sympathy. And the fact that I didn't even lose consciousness makes the tale boring, despite my best attempts at exaggerations. I try attributing the bandages to a vicious bite by my 10-month-old two-and-half-teeth-owning nephew: now, that gets much more interesting reactions!

Nevertheless, I feel foolishly elated at surviving it all...

Shailesh Jain would like to dedicate this diary to good samaritans like garment factory worker Paul Raj, who don't hesitate to help roadside victims.

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