Scars - moments of the past frozen in time eternally. A scar is what happens when the word is made flesh (quote: Leonard Cohen) We remember the time around scars, we live the moment, irrelevant emotions thronging the mind, alive, making the past even more precious; A gentle reminder that at times things cannot be restored. Like death, the ‘when there wasn’t a scar’ lives through the memory of the scar. I do not remember thinking of my unscarred limbs…
I look at myself in the mirror, a faint scar under my right eyebrow; I think of this old vegetable vendor, the one who came to my granny’s colony with his ‘thela’ everyday. I remember the grey hair, the long-ish white kurta, the mouldy wooden cart, base covered in a blue ‘barsaati’ & the huge jhola with muddy, white & red threads, that he hung over his shoulder.
I know he does not remember me as he sells his vegetables today. I would like to believe that he does sell vegetables today too. Death scares me, I shy away of the end.
I keep the medallion of braving the summer sun to catch a fleeing cricket ball across the road. That afternoon, when I crashed into the full cart & was too shocked to respond to the red on my frock. I keep my scar as my proof of identity on documents of importance.
Its sad.
The one who gave it does not know he is remembered. That indelible mark caused years ago through an accident…my scar tells me that the pain of the moment is sealed & done with. The hurt is over, there is no external mark…internally, I haven’t bothered to check yet.
Sometimes, or always, all that’s buried is not dead.
