My husband pompously taps his forehead and is quick to ascertain, “I will sleep during my MRI; what is one actually supposed to do for that one hour? The pulsating noise anyways pummels hard on the impulses, the ‘shor’ is like a mixer grinding our intemperate peccadillos.”

I bargain as usual, bewitched as wives are, raging against these boffins, “Sleeping on the MRI table! Are you getting your knee pain evaluated or insomnia is the slain adversary that you want to fight on the plain white bed? Maybe our personal mattress is causing much of a distress. 

The husband has no meat to minceand acts like a calculative jester in the court, “It’s the perfect setting! The machine and me, albeit the noise fuels like a drum beating but the solace of not being hooked to anything is solipsistic. And to your chagrin, it’s not only me but many sleep like evicted prisoners.”

I vouch all this to be a damp squib. Sleeping…..the zrrrr sound misplaced in the cacophony of ‘trrrs’ and ‘mrrrs’ right there in the palanquin emitting radioactive synergies. MRI is intimidating. Rightly called, Magnetic Resonance Imaging, it’s an imaging technology that helps to ascertain three dimensional images of the effected organs of the body mainly brain disorders or some tumors. It’s a quiver full of arrows and sleeping during the invasive task calls for immense grit and gusto. 

I think, re-think if it’s so easy to flock temptatiously in presence of the perspicacious frill of a lion? I fathom the scary experiences people have during their MRI scan, and here my unchaperoned husband gallantly obliges to walk for a scan to have a savory smitten sleep.  

Is it so easy? I have heard people having panic attacks and nearly walk off from the incomplete scan to not come back again. What about the claustrophobia many patients sigh to even think of the carapsse of the tortoise just above the head…. Yes, definitely, this is how the hollow grim of the MRI profusion looks like. The very idea to sleep intoxicatingly oblivious to the tempest brewing in the colossal depths of the obstreperous cave is like a rail fervently going through a black hole.

What about the dreams? It will not elude you even if you make it your sleeping abode. No, definitely not, a fairy tale dream or something alluring would not make the bell go ‘ting-tong’. One could see a white coat carpenter hammering the nail right inside the infected tissue being scanned or a simmering beating of drums by the heavens to not make you sleep forever. Or a brisk shaking of the body fanned by the plausible divine subtlety, ‘uth jao beta—sleep just is an illusion, reality is pressing hard on your infected knee.’ The gamut of dreams could be nowhere close to my artistic fantasy but if sleep does beckon amidst the acoustic harsh symphonies, it would not build a staccato of cogent melodies. All these are just ‘aise hee’ and ‘could be’ conundrums for a person like me who has never been under the scanner but is witness to some scary notes by friends and relatives who wow to not put the finger in the hot pie.

If sleep is still a de-rigueur for some, they must be the bindaas or bold types who plausibly make a sleep arena out of the tumultuous shivering of the cushioned table swimmingly moving into a tunnel.

Have you ever had a sleep over under the gigantic cave?

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