A Delightful Cut

There were tens of bodies in that room but there was only one Baba Ji………

A black marker.

A cross between the breasts.

A green marker.

A cross just above the belly button.

A scalpel.

A new blade.

A cut from the black to the green.

A liquid oozes out.

A hand gropes inside.

The heart is massaged.

A smile. A whoop. The end.

Have I completely lost you? I do apologize; I'll start from the start now.

My grand ma calls me a murderer and refuses to acknowledge me.

My baby sister screams when I approach.

My cousins clap and ask if they can accompany me.

My husband sleeps with one eye open.

My job - cutting up bodies.

A 16 year old gulps down 30 Valiums. They rush her to a stomach pump. They are late. She breathes her last. They bring her to me. If she happens to have doting parents or their like, I hand her over to a colleague 'cause watchful eyes observing my every cut just ain't my style.

But when they wheel in a beggar who has no one - ah! then...

My Adrenaline goes up.

My heart- rate goes up.

My sweat- rate goes up.

And I set to work.

The first step is a trip to the dressing room. There I get ready - a wash-up is followed by make-up (a dab of rogue, dark rich burgundy on the lips, a hint of glitter around the eyes, thick black mascara and the eyelashes expertly curling up) and then my hair is done up in an intricate French braid. Diamond earrings and a couple of rings complete the outfit.

I don my freshly washed overall - button it up, adjust the name-plate.

Now I allow myself one look into the mirror and yes! I'm looking good.

A little Evening Mist sprayed down the front. I slip into my four-inch Satin slippers and the look is just right. Young, seductive, mysterious.

My orders are that no one be around. So when I step out the Dissection hall is completely vacant. In the middle a long silver table has been pulled up and a sole green light is targeted onto the blanket- covered figure still on the table.

Stealthily, I walk up to the table. The blanket is pulled back. I find myself looking into a pair of fixed pupils. I look; he looks. I look; he looks. I always insist that the body be brought up to me with out the eyes having been closed so the body can have his share of looking at me just like I have mine.

I now remove the blanket all the way down and let my eyes have a feast.

The body is slowly turning different shades of blue and white. The chest is still and when I pick up the arm and let go, it falls back, lifeless.

I have but one rule: I only work on men.

There is this crazy satisfaction that I get out of cutting up men. Just like any other Mashraquee girl, I've had my share of suffering at the hands of men, bending down to them; succumbing to their will; enduring their looks and what not.

And so to have them in a place where I can do with them what I wish, how I wish, when I wish, without them being able to even utter a moan.

Furthermore, I have a fair idea of how desperately frustrated men of all ages are. So I delight in dressing up at my sexiest, being alone at such close quarters with them; dancing around them; provoking them and they being helpless all this while. As their souls scream out in torture, I have my fun.

Some of my colleagues have music on while they work.

Not me - nah! The snip snap of my scissors and the slice - slice of my Scalpels coupled with the thuds of organs falling into ice buckets is music enough for me.

What can I say?

Is it any wonder that my husband sleeps with one eye open.