Scar

“Tell doctor that you fell down and your wrist landed on glass.”

“OK Sir” she replied obediently.

“I hope someone did not cut your hand with a knife” mocked doctor.

“Who will do that? (Giggling)I fell down.” She lied about me first time.

It had been two years, when she had decided that facing board examinations was difficult than committing suicide. Since then, her world has existed only around me. People, who knew wanted to talk about the experience. People, who didn’t know, always had some friend or cousin with the same kind of scar, who had attempted suicide. She had tried everything, from making stories to hiding me with a wrist watch or bracelet. But, no one around her ever seemed to get over it.

One afternoon, she lost her patience and blurted out, “Yes, I tried to end my life and the scar on my wrist is the proof. Now, you can directly ask your questions from me. Warning: It’s not as interesting as you imagine.”

That day, she accepted and embraced me as a part of herself. 

Even after ten years, she carries me proudly. Rather than hiding, she introduces me the first chance she gets. Strangely, no one is bothered now. She has learnt one of the most important lessons of her life. If you are comfortable with your scars, everyone is.