Scars.

To my great surprise, my second favorite scar started to fade a few weeks ago and the idea of doing this post knocked at my head again, for like the fiftieth time. I’ve been meaning to write this down for a really long time but every single time I just couldn’t. Reasons – life provides you with an endless supply of them. Similarly, there were reasons to scribble this one down. First one being a conversation between me and Moe where I told her how I wanted to list down all my scars and how I got them and somehow she heard me enthusiastically describing my passion for listing down all my “scarves” and how I got them – thanks to the loud rikshaw for giving me a reason to laugh. Second, the sequel to Kung Fu Panda where the protagonist and the antagonist have a debate about scars and Po states pretty hilariously how scars just… fade. Lastly, there was this Tumblr post that I once saw on Instagram that described human skin as a blank canvas and the scars as the scribbles filling it with stories and experiences. In short, we arrive into this world as a blank slate, and then experiences happen and fill us up. How cool is that?

Off we go here. I have…

A scar on my forehead, between my eyebrows and at the start of my left eyebrow. It is my favorite scar because guess who else has a scar on their forehead? Harry frickin Potter. I got it when I was four years old. It was night time and the power went out. My parents lit up an emergency light and my mother sat down to peel potatoes, for dinner I suppose. I sat there calmly with her, and helped her peel those potatoes by stretching them peels towards myself. I have no clue what the four year old me was thinking but it was “help” in a kid’s view. Our other house was under construction so it was a rough ground before they started digging it up for foundations. Someone in the neighborhood didn’t have the place to keep their goat for sacrifice in their house so they tied up the goat at our under construction house. I don’t know what kind of a bug stung me in my brain that I got up to “go pet the goat” which I was clearly afraid of. I don’t know why I did that. Kids are plain jerks. So I made my way through the dark, climbed a little gateway (which wasn’t little back in the day since I was a four year old child) and entered into this eerie looking ground where a cousin of mine already was, fastening the rope that tied the goat to something. I walked towards the goat, swallowed down a gallon of fear and stretched my hand out towards it. The next thing I know, it’s dark, the rope isn’t intact anymore, I am afraid and screaming at the top of my lungs, running for my dear life, being chased by the goat which is being chased by my cousin. Making my way through the ground to the little doorway, I jumped through it and looked in front of myself. I saw a door emitting light and ran towards it. Next thing… I was unconscious.
I woke up in my mother’s lap with my father and my brother and an older cousin trying to fix me up. I didn’t know what had happened apart from the fact that I fell and then there was nothing in my view. I tried to get up but I couldn’t. Then I titled my head towards my left shoulder and guess what I found? A clearly visible splash of blood. I have always been scared of blood. So. I gulped. I felt some pain on my forehead. There was something sticky on it. I tried to touch it but my fingers only showed me some amorphous substance. I didn’t ask questions. It all made sense.
I had bumped into the metal thing where a door lock goes in. Its situated on the frame of the door and its edges are pretty sharp and can cut you if you hit yourself into it at an intense velocity. I didn’t need any stitches, Alhamdulilah. But I got a lesson. Don’t be a jerk and use your brains.

Various scars on my hands and arms. I have this 1.5 inch long scar on my left wrist. It’s my second favorite scar. I got it when I was six or seven years old. Our under construction house was finally built and we were busy in making it into a home. Me and my brother were calm but competitive kids. One day when it hadn’t even been a month since we had moved, we came home from somewhere at night and my mum took the keys and climbed upstairs to unlock the main entrance. We were supposed to go after her and my dad was supposed to pick up my sleeping baby sister from the car to the second floor. My brother asked me if I was up for a race and I said yeah totally, which was a dumb decision cause I couldn’t beat him, like, what was I thinking? So we ran upstairs and he jumped through the gate and into the corridor. While on the other hand, I got my shoe slipped on the freshly polished marble floor and landed onto the ground with my wrist dragging against a metallic piece of the gate. Next thing I know, I had cut my wrist vertically without even contemplating suicide (which many people asked me about later in my life. Like if I had ever tried committing suicide since I had a scar. Seriously guys? Its a vertical scar, not horizontal, you nutheads.) My mum cleaned the blood and fixed it up with a band aid (I have a thing for band aids) and I had trouble in writing for a few days since I am a lefty. But yeah. It was cool. I love this scar and I don’t want it to fade.
I have a scar between my thumb and index finger on my right hand which I got back when I was nine years old. I liked to do new things which were utterly unnecessary and then got into trouble because of them. Kids, as I stated previously, are jerks. So I was in fourth grade and I found out that we owned a stereo system. Somehow, I got my hands on its empty box and announced to my mother that I would keep my books and ish in it for the rest of my life (the height of stupidity though) because I found joy in little things. We didn’t have technology back in the day. I put things in my bag for the next day and left the remaining things in that box. The next day, I came home and had homework to do. I forgot about the whole stereo box situation until when it was time to pack my bag for the next day of school. I started a search for it but couldn’t find my books. I asked my mum if she had seen them but she shrugged. She started searching them with me. Then she got really infuriated, brought something sharp edged with her from the kitchen to scare me (don’t judge, we’ve all gotten our asses whooped) and asked where I had put my stuff the night before. With an explosion in my head, I remembered – the stereo box. Before I could reply amidst fear, the sharp edged thing somehow made contact with my skin and cut through an important capillary. Blood soon started dripping from my hand and she felt sorry for me and got me a band aid. It took two solid weeks to heal and that’s probably the only time when I saw that amount of blood drip from a wound. It healed and became a scar and taught me to remember things that I do. Which I did until last year. My memory is dying at a fast rate and well what can one do about it.
I have another scar which has almost faded on the side of my left palm. I had some skin infection when I was eleven which ended up giving me cracked skin and blood seeping through it if I accidentally hit those affected areas. One day I was at school when that affected area on the side of my palm started itching. I knew it was doing some ish and blood was soon going to seep through it. To make the process go faster, I asked a friend of mine to burst the flaky bubble like thing that probably had pus. She agreed since it was an adventure, sharpened up her pencil for better efficiency and stabbed through the pre-mature wound. I screamed and pulled my hand back but it was too late. I was to blame since it was my idea. (Being stabbed wasn’t my idea though). Next thing I know, she’s apologizing and I am crying as I am being dragged to the school nurse’s room for band aid. My mother wasn’t proud. Haha. I had to stop writing with my left hand again, and guess what? School teachers didn’t really care. Oh you’ve got a wound and you can’t write? What a nice excuse, its clearly your left hand. Well Debra you know what go to hell cause I am left handed!
I have one scar on my right middle finger. I got it when I was twenty-one. Long story short, I was going through the trauma of a lost one since my mother had died a few weeks back. It was Ramadan and we had this get together for all my father’s sisters. I was frying a batch of Pakoras when lost in my thoughts, I fried my finger along with a marinated potato slice. It hasn’t even been a year and that scar has already almost faded. Lesson : Pay attention near hot cooking oil.
I have two starting-to-fade scars on my left forearm. I got them a week after I got the previously mentioned scar. I was still twenty-one and two oil drops landed on my skin when I was trying to fry something. They’ll go away too. Soon.

A scar on the side of my torso. I was five when I got it. We went to this really cool house of someone that my mum used to know and all I remember now is their soft sofas and a huge climber that they had at the entrance. I got tired of waiting to go back home and felt sleepy. So my mum put me to sleep and laid me down on one of the sofas. I was woken up with a stinging feeling on my skin. I told my mum about it, that something was inside my clothes and irritating my skin. She thought that it might be a sticker inside of my baby clothes. So she checked. And guess what she found? A yellow and grayish bug that had bitten me and was still trying to bite me to get out of the clothes it was trapped in. They somehow got me calm with some candy and well that is how I got a scar that has grown with me ever since. Its a lot lighter in color now than it was before, and it’s size has expanded as well since I have expanded. Haha. Lesson? Don’t fall asleep at someone else’s house.

A bunch of scars on my left knee. I got the very first one when I was three. My mum sent me with my brother to get something from a nearby store. I remember I was wearing a pink frock with tutu-like net and embellishments and all. So while we were walking back home, he asked if I was ready to run. Again. Competitive children who liked to race and always got into trouble because of dumb decisions. Apparently I think it wasn’t his fault either. He wanted a brother and he got me instead, so he had to make up for it and make me do things that boys do. And he hated the fact that I was a slow walker, he never liked walking with me until when I was eighteen and I told him how fast I could walk by his side. He was impressed. Hah. Anyway. So. He asked me to run back home. We started running. My cute little pink shoe got hit with a rock that I didn’t see in the dark (it was night time) and fell face first onto the street. I got my knee wounded and it really hurt and stained my cute little pink frock. Mum wasn’t happy. But guess what? He took all the blame! and got scolded. Haha. Lesson learned? Don’t run on the street with a frock on when you are a three year old child.
I got another scar on the same scar but on a bigger magnitude when I was twenty. I was with one of my school friends at a university fair and we were walking from my department to the ground where the carnival was taking place. There are these barriers that stop any cars from crossing the line. So all of us students have to jump over them if we come across them. I had been well accustomed to them by the time. So we were going and she went ahead and I have no idea how my abaya got stuck in my shoe or someone else’s shoe (it was a crowd) or what, and I fell. Someone gave me a hand and picked me up but I still don’t know who it was. According to my friend, she or anyone else, no one picked me up. But I distinctly remember someone held me up. Maybe it was God taking care of me. So we went on about our business. My knee hurt but I didn’t wanna ruin my friend’s day. It was when I got back home that I found out that it was a messed up wound. I didn’t tell my mother for a day. She found out the next day anyway and freaked out. It took around two weeks to get better because of the cracking of the hardening skin since it was on a joint. I learned a lesson though. I pay more attention to my abaya whenever I jump.

A lot of scars on my left shin which I have now lost count of and have also faded from both, my skin and my memory. So this one that’s still pretty apparent, I got it when I was nineteen or twenty, I don’t exactly remember. I was at the university cafe with my friends and we thought that it would be “cool” to walk over the pile of debris that was ahead of us. My other friends made it to the other side very conveniently. Yours truly, on the other hand, fell on a pointed concrete piece and cut her skin on the shin. I freaked out and sorta yelled at them for what I don’t remember. It was rude and if any of you see this someday, know that I am sorry. By the time my friends got me to the university clinic, we found out that there were not one, but three cuts. One major and two minor. The nurse got it tidied up and it was fun seeing my friends do lame stuff so that I wouldn’t feel pain. Lesson? Don’t walk over debris for fun and don’t yell at your friends when they’re trying to help you.

A scar on my right shin. I got it when I was twenty. (Ikr, twenty was the year of scars.) It was early in the morning and I was still pretty sleepy. I was supposed to ride with my brother so he could drop me at the university gate. As I was trying to get into the car, the car door somehow did some ish and I felt a squeak of pain and then forgot about it. Walking in the university hurt that day, that I remember. So when I got back home, I found out that I had accidentally cut my skin with a frickin car door. What even. Is that a thing people do? Normal people don’t. So it became a scar that is going to fade soon. Lesson learned? Stay woke.

A scar on my right calf. I got it when I was twenty-one, last year. We were in Madinah and both me and my sister were pushing the wheelchairs of our mother and her sister, our aunt. We were on our way to the hotel when I heard my sister asking me to walk faster behind me. Next thing I knew, she bumped her wheel chair into my leg and some tears trickled down my eyes ’cause I was in so much pain. She thought that I was over reacting in the middle of the street but I don’t think that I was. My mother stroked my head and asked me to not cry, which I obliged to because well, it was just an accident. She didn’t do it on purpose. So we went home. I forgot about it because I was busy. Then we went to Makkah. My feet were swollen but I thought that there wasn’t any time to feel pain. So I went on doing the normal things, pushing wheelchairs and a lot of walking. Then one day I took a shower and later found out that there was a reason to my swollen feet. It wasn’t just walking. It was that injury that I had faced back in Madinah. By the time I actually paid attention to it, it had developed into a messed up wound with pus in it. So I asked our acquaintances who also happen to be doctors. They told me to have some meds for swelling and asked me to take care of the wound with an ointment which I fortunately had since I took it with me from Pakistan. In short, the wound didn’t heal until when I landed back in Pakistan and gave me a nice circular scar on my calf.

A scar on the back of my left foot above my heel. I was four when I got it. I remember asking my mum for those nice ballet-like shoes that my cousin also had. My mother got me those despite not wanting to and they remained my favorite shoes for quite some time. I remember they used to irritate my skin but I never cared since one, I was a kid, second, they were my choice, third, kids are jerks. So this one night we were out and about the city and I was wearing those same shoes. I felt something burning my heel. I was uncomfortable so I asked my mum if I could take my shoes off. She was angry but she let me. When we got home, there was a visible burn on the back of my foot. Why? Those frickin shoes were made of rubber and nylon which had reacted with my skin and given me a scar for life. And the irritation that I had been feeling before that? It was all real and it affected my skin as well. We as kids are stupid as heck. Lesson? If your mum is disapproving of something, don’t force her into buying it cause you don’t know jack shit about yourself and mothers always know best.

A scar on my second toe on my left foot. Its a very negligible line now. I got it when I was ten. My mother and father were away for a wedding so they left me and my brother at our grandma’s place. I was with my cousin when she said that she had to press her uniform. Being the competitive kid that I was, I was really offended. A kid younger than me knew how to iron clothes and I didn’t. So what did I do? I asked her if I could press her clothes instead. She asked me if I was experienced. I told her that I press clothes regularly of my entire family. She was impressed and let me do the job. The iron slipped and made its way to my foot. I burnt a toe and ended up with a bubble that gave me trouble in walking. But wearing normal chappals to school has its own privileges. Lesson learned? Don’t brag.

A scar on my right foot. I got it when I was fourteen. I was in the kitchen making tea for some guests when I accidentally dropped the teapot on my foot and it gave me a really nice burn. Then I messed up the wound by trying to fix it up myself. Then I was rushed to a clinic where they took care of it and gave me some meds for the swelling. It took a week to get better I suppose. Lesson : Stay woke in the kitchen, kids.

And there, I have listed all the scars that are still there and I remember them. The paper cuts, knife cuts, slicer cuts and other negligible stuff isn’t mentioned here ’cause I don’t remember them. I like it how leniently I used to, and still, take my injuries. Like its no big deal. Yes I know it hurts but that’s what life does all the time so you better swallow some tears and move on. I remember my mum telling me, “no biggie, it’ll be okay” whenever I’d ask her for band aids or show her my little cuts or anything. It has really helped me a lot over the course of time, but then it has also made me not think of myself with that amount of self care which is healthy and needed. Anyway. This too shall pass.

I hope that you had fun reading about my jerkiness. And absolute knuckleheadness of my siblings. Haha. (I am sincerely hoping that there’s nothing negative in there. With that, this post consists of almost four thousand words. Let that sink in.) I might add into this the upcoming stuff that I might have to have and lets see where it takes this post.

Peace and love.

– Mahaah.