bhaskar saikia

Memory doesn’t offer us a perfect picture—it gives us shards, flashes, pieces that shimmer and cut. Some are golden with warmth; others sting like old glass under the skin. We try to hold them together, to form a whole, but the cracks remain. And maybe they should.

We remember people not as they were in entirety, but as they felt in moments—the way a friend laughed in candlelight, the silence that followed someone’s last goodbye, the way a street smelled in the rain one summer long ago. These fragments are not the whole truth, but they are ours.

And when we look into this fractured mirror of the past, what do we see? A reflection made imperfect by time, emotion and forgetfulness—but a reflection nonetheless. The cracks don’t erase who we are. They remind us that we’ve lived, that we’ve broken and mended, that we carry light even through the fractures.

After all, a mirror without cracks may show a clearer image—but one with cracks tells a deeper story.