The tooth, the whole tooth, and nothing but the tooth.

Today I rue the loss of wisdom. Am still numb. Comfortably, thankfully. And still wise. Three-quarters none the lesser.

Am still looking for the symbolism behind the molar decay. These were an early gift. At 15, these painful vestigials had already started asserting their presence, and I guess by now the guarantee period for these precious pearly-whites-of-wisdom is over. Considering the fact that I have had them forever, without them, I think I can't think anymore.

So I helplessly stretched into the chair. He peeped in - "Ha, easy one!".
He poked me, twiddled his thumbs, adjusted the light, arranged his tools. At the moment, when I was settling for which of the Gods to pray to, he spoke to me about the mystic from India with curly hair, who is supposed to have healing powers. I nodded in wide-mouthed assent. I didn't want to disagree, as he was the one with the weapons.

Then he got the drill. "High Speed", he said, reassuringly. The buzz put a brief pause in my morbid chain of thought.
Using what looked like a giant lever, he tried wedging my tooth out, with the skill of a car mechanic. The tooth refused to budge.
He quickly shuffled his feet and changed his stance - "Ah, Tough one!" and then with a deft move, fetched a pair of pliers. Not some itsy-bitsy-polka-dotted surgical types - these looked like they were industrial grade. Like the ones used for automobiles. At least from my point of view.

I think I zoned out right then....

Disgusting as it may sound, I got my tooth back in a box, just in case it was the ONE. I plan to keep it on my table, and consult it in times of need.

The whole day I have been feeling the presence of a phantom tooth.

Please don't laugh. Trust me it is not at all funny. As we all know, I am bad at writing humour, so, I am not even trying.

And the poke hurts more than the yank.
I want my mummy.