The pink-haired lady on the train, the 15 year old skateboarding in the park, the line-cook in the cafeteria, the old man paying for his lottery ticket, you....me. We all have stories - some that we chose to write, some that were written for us. Some that we share, some that we cling to desperately. Some that are easy to tell, and some that we ink on our bodies to speak for us because we can't find the words. And all of them define us.
I don't talk about my stories often. There's never seems to be the right time, right place, right reason. And to be quite honest, I'm not certain I've made sense of it all myself and sharing it seems premature.
But I've found different outlets over the years. Writing, photography, music.. the things that connect me to the feelings that I can't quite voice. And this year, I found tattoo art.
There is nothing quite as personal or meaningful as a tattoo. A tattoo will stare you in the face every single day, reminding you of something or the other. It will be your mascot, your icon, your emblem for the rest of your life. It's permanence demands committment.
I made that commitment earlier this year. I had been planning it for a couple of years, and after a really bad day I decided it was now or never. My tattoo is simple - my last name in a cursive font on my left side, parallel to my heart. It stands for a lot of things - things that I still won't write about in this public manner - but most of all it stands for every single second, every minute, every event, every person that has brought me to today and to the person I have become.
A proud and infallibly strong Bhatia.