A exquisite scar

Air was fresh. But we all suffocated by those scars inside our mind. I looked at her. She poured down the tears for the crow (in hindu mythology) that she thought was a storyteller, proverb, a model and almost everything. For her that man with wrinkles and the one who holds onto his stick was unique. “Baba, people will die” I said, throwing out the words which were stuffed inside my mouth. “How can you say that? He was just everything?” she said, forgetting all the science she learned. “Come on!” I said, spreading my arms. She came near me and hugged me. The tears were just not the pain to my shirt but also my heart. I looked down at her. All I could see was a scar over her hair which had the evening sky in it. I smiled remembering the golden hug she gave me (Every scar has a story to tell). The wavering hues of colors sprawled across the deep blue sky. The trees overridden the spunky hues of colors. My grandpa was sitting on the arm chair. She was a small figure who was struggling on the floor. She wore a pink pair. Grandpa who wore a khaki mund took her with his hands. I was sitting on a rock totally covered by soil. “Grandpa, Can I take her?” I asked while grandpa was embracing her with warmth and love. “No, You are too weak to take her” He said, Showing some worry in his face by compressing some of the wrinkles in his face. “Please” I was becoming polite and raised my eyebrow to make my face look more poor. “Fine,” Grandpa said but his words were not strong. I prepared my hands to take that squishy face and to introduce my warmth and love. I took her slowly in my hands, as I felt the love inside me blooming like a flower. I was in her soul. “Ppppp” I fell to the ground. The last sound I heard was the same cry. I admired her scar and was beautiful just like her. Circle and red. Sometimes scars can be the album of a life. And a life without a scar never has a story to tell.