Let's compare our Scars

This is not going to be an entertaining or an escapist read. So, close the tab if you are looking for something in that general category.

Scars! We all get bruised many times in our lives but few bruises stay and become permanently carved as scars in us. These scars, romanticists may say are the aspects of our personality that makes us beautiful. But are we supposed to believe in the beauty their eye beholds? More so, the question rumbles for this particular group of people who not only have a tendency to see things with their rose tinted glasses but they also attach an over emotional attachment to everything under the sun.

Scars don't define us, they don't make us beautiful, they don't teach you any lesson, they are just fossilised experiences stored in the form of weird marks to be seen either with physical eyes or sentient ones. They hide a story, lying dormant in them. Stories which mean the world to the possessor of scars. They don't make anyone weak, strong or mature. They just change your worldview.

Once in a while new experiences may infringe upon the personal space of these scars. They may interfere with the very existence of these old dwellers. These experiences may adjust & come in terms with their ancestors and live in perfect harmony. But! Not always. There are instances when fresh experiences may turn your scar into a gangrenous wound. Then, what do we have? I have no idea!!!

Are we supposed to compare our scars? Perhaps not! Not everyone can be objective enough to appreciate the pain of others. In this particular case, subjectivity is an accomplice to the act of apathy & coldness, unusually. No matter what any one says, we all have a greater subjective weight for our own worries, wounds, grief, pain, pangs & penchants. And, we tend to project these distorted viewpoint in an objective manner. This is certainly very apathetic.

We all grow up with different set of experiences and depending upon a lot of factors, we may choose to associate relevance with all of them in various random ways. Societal upbringing forces us to take lessons from each one of them and become a better participant. This is perhaps self-fulfilling because when we try to learn listlessly all the time, we are bound to become walking zombies.

There are experiences which gives us bruises, few bruises become scar. And, these scars have stories. There is a thing about stories : Stories lose their magic when they are seen more than just a story [Watch the video above]. We have an innate tendency to look for signals in the sea of noise. This is what gives the scars a bad name. A scar visualised as a symbolic form of story-telling is what we all need. We don't need new lessons for our survival. We don't have to compare our scars to feel better about ourselves. Scars are no measures of personal achievement to be compared and gain happiness or for the matter to wallow in sadness.

Scars are just scars not to be healed or compared. They are just a doorway into the days of the yore, to quench your innate desire for nostalgia

A Giant Vermin

I want to cry. I want to cry and just want to be in that state.
I want to submerge myself in my own tears. I want to see myself drowning in it. I want to almost die.
I want to suffocate. I want to feel helpless & powerless. I want to crawl in my own worry-pool.
Only to be rescued by you. I want you to rescue me. I want you to take me out of that cesspool of misery & pessimism.
I want you to scold me. I want you to punish me. I want you to laugh at me. I want you to slap me red & blue.
I fucking have no clue as to how would you strangulate me. But strangulate me by all means. Hang me from the most decrepit tree. Shoot donkey shit at my dead face. Take pictures of it. Laugh at it. Then again bring my body back and shred it to pieces. Distribute it to millions of beetles.
Because that is who I am. A giant vermin. Someone who is a fucking insect with a human face and body of man.

I want you to absolve me from all this. I know only you have the power. You only can kick me where it hurts the most. Only you can put pepper spray on my wounds where it is most lethal.
I want to submit to only you. You are everything I think about. You are the reason I want to die. Because I know that you are subjected to a lot of suffering because of me.
I can't help it. I am helpless to the maximum. The level of grief inside me is venomous to all the people. But to you it is claustrophobic and inevitable. You have been going through this by no fault of yours. But I have accused you in my mind a million times. I had thought you have done this to me. I don't know what makes me think of that but now I feel I am stupid to live. Please grab by my neck and put my face in a shit-pit. Make me drink urea. Give me more wounds. Because I love your wounds. Because I love the pain inflicted by you.
Because I love the way you heal those wounds. Because I love you. I would always do that, till the last drop of my body fluid.

Failed Impression

Life doesn’t always give people ample chances to express themselves. Sometimes, that could be catastrophic for the person whose emotions are unexpressed when the water is already under the bridge.

Ankur always wanted to live a life full of extremes. He was a day-dreamer. He lived in a posh colony. His parents were the kind of people, as all parents are, somewhat uninterested in his small stories. Stories which were beautiful only when you see it through a child’s eyes. Like most of the kids, he became happy & sad with small things. He was always an expressive person, he needed a person to share those seemingly trivial anecdotes. Richa, the garrulous girl who lived just a few blocks away and used to come to the park to play slowly became interested in Ankur’s stories. Richa cycled on her ladybird everyday to sit with Ankur & listen to all his stories. Richa’s banter always enthused Ankur to share each of his stories as & when they happened. Their friendship survived the test of teenage and went to adulthood.

Ankur started to deal with his adulthood. His parents were all ears to him but there was an artificial wall between them which only Ankur could see. He still maintained the same protocol of telling everything to Richa. Richa had also grown up and used to fill Ankur with all her crushes. She used to describe about all the guys she crushed upon in detail. Ankur always had that smirk to hide his true emotions. Each passing day started becoming more gruesome for Ankur.

“Hey! You know there’s this cute guy in my office who blushes in my presence”, Richa says in the middle of a long silence. “Hmmmm, something’s brewing!” exclaimed Ankur. Albeit, Ankur’s heart started churning and all he wanted to do was cry. He wanted to sob with all his energy and take his lungs & heart out.

“I don’t know what to do, Ankur. He is a bit shy and never takes any steps to break the ice between us”

“Richa, I think sometimes women should take the first step. It looks special” puts in Ankur

Years passed, Richa’s heart had fallen for yet another guy which was like a quarterly routine for her. Ankur was in cognizance of this and he did his best to listen to all what Richa had to say. However, during the last few years Ankur had lost a friend. The friend who used to listen to all of his stories. The friend who never judged his stories. The friend who did her best to comfort Ankur when she was the only way Ankur could find solace. So much unsettling this was for Ankur, but he kept all those emotions inside him. There was a reason behind it. Now, he was not that same 10 year old kid. He was a grown man with his matured stories. Almost all those stories had Richa in it. The Richa, who was a beautiful young lady. The Richa, who could make Ankur’s worries go away with a smile. The Richa, in whose presence Ankur lived with tranquility. Alas, he was afraid to say all this to Richa.

He had loved Richa all those years. Now, he wanted to express that love with his stories but Richa never gave Ankur the confidence which he needed to spill the beans out. Ankur & Richa kept on meeting each other. However, there developed an invisible wall between him & Richa.

His life became a brutal maze in which every night he reached the same nadir of hopelessness of unrequited love. Ankur cried himself to sleep every night. This went on for few weeks. He finally decided that he is going to express himself. He had had his share of wallowing in fear of rejection. He brushed up all the stories safely stacked up in his heart. He could almost feel his heart pounding. He had a childlike innocent confidence that Richa would accept his proposal. He put on his best clothes, checked his smell and marched on his way to a mission. There was a minor worry in his mind though. He didn’t meet Richa last evening & his calls went unanswered late last night. But, sanity prevailed over him and he assured himself that she might have fallen asleep.

He presses the buzzer outside Richa’s flat. But, it was pointless as he realised that quite a lot of people are coming in & out of her flat. He asked one of them, “Bhai, what’s the reason for this flux of people?” “Dude, the girl left her body for heavenly abode last night. Peaceful death, family members only realised it in the morning. Doctors say it was a cardiac arrest. Strange thing!” replied the young boy shattering Ankur’s world forever.
Hoping against hope he asks, “Richa?” The guy replies , “Yes of course, Richa. She was the only girl in the house.”

Ankur went inside Richa’s flat. Waved a goodbye and strolled back towards his home without shedding a drop of tear. His life was transformed. He got lost in a different maze. A maze which had so many hints to get out of it. Alas, he never wanted to come out of it. Richa was the reason he was trying to find a way out of the earlier maze. His emotions remained forever unexpressed. He failed. He had failed to put across a proper impression. His failed impression would haunt him forever.

PS : Work of fiction