Tattoo

‘Until I find you’ by John Irving introduced me to the world of tattoo artists, and since then, I have been totally fascinated by tattoos. I think I read the book when it was published, back in 2006, I think. It is not often that I remember when I read a specific book, but I remember buying this book at the airport, on my way to India. I had a BA flight and changed at Heathrow. But all this is quite besides the point – the point is that since I read that book, I have wanted a tattoo.

It took me a very long time to make up my mind. After all, a tattoo is a lifelong affair, rather like marriage or having a child. A quite important decision, really. Quite different from coloring your hair, piercing your ears or nose or getting a tan. A tattoo is there to stay. All your life, whether you grow tired of it or not.

I have had long discussions this. With my friends, acquaintances & even strangers. I have heard all sorts of arguments, for and against. I have toyed with the concept, become enthusiastic and then chickened out. But I have not been able to get rid of the idea. No, not ever.

I have a dear friend who has two tattoos and wants to have more. She got them done when she was younger, and I think they still look beautiful on her. She is the one who often incites me to do wild things. And this time she actually made me go to our local tattoo parlor here and pay an advance for getting an appointment. Today was the day.

I almost cancelled the appointment today, ready to forego the advance I had paid. A lot of my friends had seemed dubious about the idea. Some said that I would not be able stand the pain. Others thought that I was becoming senile – it was all right for youngsters, truck drivers, punks, artists and the assorted weirdos to resort to such exhibitionism. It is ill suited for staid middle aged women coming from my type of background.

Well, true. Probably. While I mulled over everything I heard, in a perverse way I became more determined, quite unconsciously, to go ahead with my project. Throughout my life I have tried to do what I wanted, sometimes with disastrous results. I have suffered from my choices, learnt from my mistakes and plodded on. Since I had no one to blame when things went wrong, it was easier to get over them, in a way – no time spent moping or planning revenge or any negative emotions. So as the day progressed, I was quite sure that I would be at the parlor at the appointed time.

Strangely, what was furthest from my mind was the anticipation of pain. I knew it would hurt, but did not have any real idea of how much. I naively believed what my friend told me – that it would hurt for a first few minutes, and then things would be hunky dory. I was more bothered about whether the pattern I had chosen would look good on me. Such is the vanity of a woman.

Anyway, there I was, in the smart clean parlor dot on time. The gentle faced receptionist took me to a room at the back that looked like an operation theater rather than a tattoo parlor. A big guy with a knotted beard and tattoos covering every inch of visible flesh other than the face greeted me with an equally big smile. He asked me what I wanted & I showed him the picture I had on my phone. He took a cursory glance & asked me to sit down on a comfortable chair.

‘Which foot do you want?’ he asked.

‘Left’ I muttered.

‘Why not the right?’ he asked me.

Immediately I felt flustered. I know nothing about the rules of tattooing – who knows, may be the foot you have your tattoo on makes a particular statement to all and sundry.

‘Oh, I can have it on the right one too’, I say hastily. ‘I don’t really mind’ I stammer.

He shouts with laughter. ‘You’re going to have this all your life & you don’t care? That’s kinda strange, no? You sure you’ve thought about this carefully, Mademoiselle?’

(A quick aside – I feel elated every time I am addressed as ‘Mademoiselle’. Vanity, once more! Though I could see that he was not French – actually he is Polish, as I found out later. But more about that later).

‘Yes, I have. But then, you are the expert’, I say timidly. ‘If you think the pattern would look better on the right foot, then so be it’. I say.

This time his laugh really booms out in the small courtyard. ‘Hey, it is just because I have to turn this effing chair around. If you had said right foot, I wouldn’t have had to do it’.

I watch in trepidation as he starts taking out his tools of trade. Nasty looking things, if you ask me. Drills with sharp points, an assortment of surgical looking bottles, loads of wet wipes. No stencils, just two felt tip pens, black & red. I thought that tattooists always used stencils. I hesitantly ask him whether he was going to use one.

‘Of course not! The design is in my head. I draw it on your skin’.

Oh well. I shut up while he talks to himself in his native language. A series of deep guttural sounds as he puts everything on the little table. I pretend to be nonchalant while I curse myself silently for embarking on this adventure.

‘So, young lady (big grin on my face) let me tell you how this is going to happen. I have to tell you that this is going to hurt. In fact, this is going to hurt a lot. I need you to stay perfectly still. No sudden movements, or you pattern will look like an ECG. You will lie on your back first & then on your stomach. That is how I will do the back of your heel. You are allowed to scream, but just don’t f…..g move, OK?’

‘How bad is the pain going to be?’ I ask in a trembling voice.

‘Are you a mother?’ he asks me. I nod. ‘Did you have a normal delivery? Unassisted by epidural’?

‘Yes’, I breathe, though it is not entirely true. I did ask for an epidural when the pain had got unbearable.

‘Well then, you’ll be able to take it’ he declares.

I attempt a feeble jest. ‘How would you know? You never gave birth, after all’.

His intense blue eyes bore into mine. No trace of humor. ‘I shared the pain with my wife; believe me, every second of it.’

I decide not to pursue the conversation. I follow his instructions and lie down on the leather couch.

‘What kind music do you want? I have no Indian music (by this time I had told him that I was from India and he said he was from Poland). Do you like Punk Rock? That is my most popular CD’. I shudder and shake my head. ‘OK, I have rock & roll, country, some soul. What do you want?’

I settle for Rock & Roll, and settle down with ‘Sharp Dressed Man’ playing in the background. I close my eyes, unable to look at the ugly pointed instrument in the hands of my tattooist….

Since the purpose of the note is not to reproduce the various processes of torture perfected over centuries, I shall not describe the half an hour that followed. I would rather show you the final result.

Welcome, my friend for life!