Yesterday,was rummaging through my scars- both physical and otherwise, scars that had a story that is remembered, scars with no story to glorify them, scars orphaned and abandoned to life's viciousness, that had left a mark on me and my life.

All my scars have a glorious story - a gift of an over zealous cyclist on my birthday,a careless sickle that hit the thumb, the winning trophy by a cyclist competing with a premier padmini..almost all of them have their own juicy stories- bed time stories for the future generation on the lines of Thenaliraman, Vickramaadhithyan and Vedhalam.

Some stories are pretty off the hand, while some reside on the dusty lanes of memory, occassionaly visited by a leading word or a reminding incident. One that doesn't have an page number to refer to in those dusty bylanes, is the one on my right hand just beneath the small finger. countless visits to the dusty bylanes of memory wouldnt bring the story behind the scar...oh..thats one of the orphans..

I think hard about that...a clean stich that is visible with all its curves and nodes. I couldnt remember a time when i was stiched in my fingers or in my hand..countless tales of the countable incidents do sometimes masquearade as the original...Couldnt figure out the real original, when there are so many competing entries each one with the most authentic source and seemingly irrefutable logic. A careful examination with the eye of the creator, would throw the gaping holes that dot the story line.

But there are other scars that are less physical. Their's is too strong a presence to be thrown into the dusty bylanes. I wonder, would they leave my face as blemished, as they had left my heart, mind and soul. I can already see the rings around my eyes...Oh...dont ask how can I see it, when all that is visible are in the colour of those rings...Its yet another creator's liberty...To make things up, to cook a tasty curry with nothing but masala.

Whenever I hear a word, that word that was spoken by her, that sound that came out that time, the noise of the hongs, the dust of the the hot street, the scent of the lavishly sprinkled perfume, the softness of that mane, the bliss of a ride to unknown destination through the serpentine roads, I shrudder with an unexplainable, not to be explained feeling...Is it a feeling or an imgaination?