Don't Know Why

Scars write easy stories of their own, on me. Every miniscule irrelevant event of my life, from bruise to bite, is written all over my body. I deftly conceal it, wrapping it up with a glossy gnawing complex, tying it up with a 'defensive' ribbon. Then I carefully fan over it, nurturing the embers to ravaging flames, till the very mention of it would makes my heart palpitate, and my head reel. Such is my life story, scars written by restless fingers, that once upon a time, used to explore every wound with an innocent viciousness, that to an onlooker would have looked masochistic. At the crack of weekend dawn, we dance to yoga. As I push my thighs into my body, I hear a military-crisp 'Hold' close to my ears. I hold, both my posture and my breath. 'Every part of your body is in a plane of its own. Roll up your tights. I need to see your knees. They should be in line with your foot', she says, as she gestures the rest of the class to gather around me. She rolls up the tights as my knees buckle and the triangle I am trying to form with my left leg, my hand and the ground is in disarray. But I do not break the overall pose. I die a death far more full of life than any, as I hear the blood rushing to my ears. My heart beats a million times. The hair on my neck stands erect as I am suddenly wrapped in a cold sweat. Shit. Double Shit. Triple Shit. Quadruple Shit. Pentupple Shit. I fumble for the next natural number. 'Are they looking? What are they thinking? Why me?' I imagine eyes boring into my skin. They would never understand the stories of the scars. They would only see the dark ugly botches.The one on the knee is a remnant from the first bicycle bruise, the one in the middle of the leg tells some unknown story that I no longer remember. When there is a scar, one for each year of your life, it is difficult to remember all the stories. The two on the back and the two on my arms, remind me of the ten day bout of chicken pox. I try to justify the scars, spinning stories around them. I cannot look apologetic. Now I wish the earth would swallow me. I swallow non existent saliva instead. The cold turns to beads of sweat as I distantly hear her explaining that the sole of my left leg is not in line with the arch of my right. She tells me to stand on my sole, pushing my toes up and my thigh into my pelvis. The pain stings me. 'Can you see her tights crease?' she asks the onlookers. 'Tuck in your butt, push your tail bone up', she continues her instructions. I suddenly feel relieved now that everyone has anyway seen my horrible secret imprints, ones that I had carefully concealed all these years. I have nothing to lose. The relief is almost defiant. I throw my shoulders back and my tailbone lifts by itself. I remember Philip from Of Human Bondage. I smile at the thought. The demonstration comes to an end. People scurry back to their places. The dance starts once again, as I forget to roll back my tights.