We were returning from a very interactive evening as much of
the plans had flopped and what had really worked for us was talking .In one of
those rare quiet moments he moved his finger on my scar, which sits with a loud
elegance on my right hand. Well next what happened is so conspicuous that it
doesn’t need a mention. I went on telling him the whole story of where, what
and how.
For me scars have always been the tangible link which would transport
me directly to those intangible memories. They fill me with squeaky laughter, tomato
red shame and a sadness which I am yet to give words, it is as if I am running
towards something and I know it is smiling at me but I just never catch it. It
is faintly mine and not whole. They are such a true reminder of who you were
what you did and that everything has changed around you, even your skin which
carries it.
I have never tried to hide my scars, but I do see people
hiding them .Are they not beautiful, are they not a part of you? They are the subtle
signs of courage, curiosity and the big explorer in you. The super hero in you
with those flying in the air stunts or the fidgety Philip on the dining table
and yes of course the incredible feeling to cook something on your own at the
expense of hot oil spilling, diving in the oven directly or the bad knife who
did not treat you well .That was childhood all about and the child inside is
each day ready to create more memories.
As the gentleman dropped me home, I sealed a memory without
a scar but who said scars are only skin deep?
