The Scars My Mother Traces – Tanishq Khurana

On this page today,

I write the stories of yesterday.

How happily we fell and then

With joy rose up again.

The smiles on those faces,

The scars my mother traces.

All of them were fresh and lively

And shall remain forever safe.

The brawls we took part in,

The rage we displayed to bring

The victory onto our side.

Who’s credit? We could never decide.

The hands of our clock kept covering circles.

With our hearts together we covered hurdles.

The night came marching in accompanied by darkness.

The dogs howled and barked less.

The smiles on those faces,

The scars my mother traces.

All of them were fresh and lively

And shall remain forever safe.

What a beautiful aspect of life it is. An ever-changing phenomenon that governs the very basis of the lives of the rich and poor alike. Time doesn’t discriminate. It doesn’t favour anyone in particular. This extravagant and infinite universe of ours might physically be made up of stardust but at its very core, it is all time when we look at it metaphysically or even logically. Time is that building block of existence that forms the very foundation of it. I have had my own little encounters with its power, from time to time. Good and bad, ascents and descents, happy and sad, the list of these oxymorons can go on because life is nothing but a play of time.

The greenery was visibly fading away while the water droplets disassembled into smaller ones as they violently hit the window of my seat. I was looking outside with great hope to find something meaningful again– a will to continue, maybe. A will to go on and celebrate this dreadful journey that is clawing its nails into my back and slowly hauling the life out of me. It all boiled down to that one night. That night he bid me goodbye and goodnight for a very long period of time with a light heart and heavy eyes. The earth under my feet vanished as I started to drown in this pool of emptiness, a pool of nothingness. Father had always been the hand that held mine and was there with me as I took every step. The vines of death were trying to grab me and they would have been successful if it wasn’t for her. Mum never let me dampen my cheeks. I still remember every time that she had lifted me up and wiped my tears. This was one of those times but unique in its own sense, as this time I wasn’t the only one to hit the ground; Mum hit it too, hard and painfully. I did get back up, on my own, but I couldn’t lift her up. I tried my best, but her body was heavy with pain, memories and lost love. Mum stayed in that small house because her memories of him were like an open wound around which she loved to scratch– but never directly on it because she knew very well that if she did that, it would hurt, hurt a lot. People say time heals the wound, but I know that it’s not always true. I, on the other hand, decided to do what he wanted me to: follow my dreams, whatever they might be. I took the first train there was to take me where I wanted to go.

Father left us a mark on our hearts but filled that four-chambered red fist with loads of love, which was enough to keep both mum and I running for a very long period of time. Love is something more powerful than time sometimes. Perhaps this is why it can’t always heal the wounds left by love. Love is inanimate and time is a dimension for all we know and still, it overpowers this dimension because it is not just a feeling of affection, it’s the gravity that keeps us grounded. It’s the force that is making this giant ball called Earth move on its axis. It is everything to me.

And time? Time is a puddle of memory and hope till you step in it– as then it turns into a giant whirlpool of emotions, sentiments and desires.

By Tanishq Khurana, Heritage Xperiential School, Gurgaon

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