Nothing in the world binds like strong family ties, although there might still be strong undercurrents at play as well
THIS is a story of three people. No, they’re not Beavis and Butthead featuring Diarrhea. It’s the story of my brother and sister. And if you still can’t figure out who the third one is, chances are that you’ll like this piece of writing because it’s just as dumb.
It all began when my brother arrived in this cruel world of seven phuphos and their husbands. Little did he know then that he weighed merely four pounds. The first remark registered in the honour of my proud grandmother’s grandson was khoda pahar nikla chooha, by a nurse who was probably impressed by my mother’s 5ft-6inch Kashmiri frame.
Being a true Libran, my brother loved flowers, fragrances and of course, girls. Everyday, he asked my aunt if she could find a suitable girl of his age (eight years three months and 22 days) in her office, who could replace his BMX with a convertible car. My aunt promised him that she would find him a gharwali (read carwali). But she then met a really nice uncle, got married and is living quite happily.
When my brother was four years old, my sister was born. Because my brother thought of everything to be as beautiful and as colourful as the flowers in our garden, and everything to be a gift of nature, he thought that my mother had given birth to a little (well, not so little) snowball that had hair. Thus, a very proud mother returned home carrying seven pounds of snow. As a rule, Kashmiris have a different attitude towards children. They really don’t care about their sex as long as they’re healthy and have a fair complexion.
After three-and-a-half years of my sister’s arrival, I was born. My birth was of no significance except for the fact that before I was even born, my mother had mentally prepared my brother to share his BMX with another Butt brother!
My sister and I were sent to a Catholic school that had a church with broken windows and a frail-looking bell. When I was seven years old, I was ‘harassed’ by a boy who was of my age, but appeared to be more powerful because he was four inches taller. Every day, he used to ask me for ‘my money’ in a very ludicrous manner. It was at that point in life when I understood that love is more powerful than fear — the love of my father’s haq-halal ki kamai that he sent us all the way from a country I couldn’t even spell. One sunny morning, I beat up that boy up and just for a change, asked him for his money. He quietly handed me a marble. I still have it as a token of my courage.
From the pond behind my school, where I first thought of kissing a frog, to the cricket ground, I loved every bit of my school. My brother, on the other hand, was a true gentleman. I don’t think he ever used the word yaar in his entire school life. He was quite content with his first love, his BMX.
At home, we were inseparable, like milk and tea. I remember my brother loved the yellow-coloured lacha my sister and I brought home every day from our school canteen. We shared it then like we share our Internet account now.
As my brother was seven years older than I was, he often tried to impress me with his scientific abilities. “Sugar becomes carbon when heated,” he announced as he stared with his magnifying glass at the black residue clinging to the bottom of the test tube. I didn’t know anything about carbon then.
From a hairy snowball, my sister transformed into a tall, young girl with curly hair. She looked quite attractive in her plain school uniform because of her tall and slender structure. Her sharp tongue and height intimidated the boys. We have always been good friends, although I was scared of her then.
Perhaps my sister was the most innocent of the three of us. I still remember the day when my mother was reading the newspaper and my ever-so-concerned sister saw a couple of pictures of a politician and exclaimed, “Look, they’re twins!” in sheer delight. And the day when she was trying her best to tell us something about a character of Sesame Street but couldn’t recall its name and kept on saying “aray wohi kachwa. And finally, when she did remember its name ... the first thing that came out of her mouth was ... Kermit the Frog!
But I can never forget her sincere efforts and sleepless nights when she tried her best to teach me those weird maths problems that I still don’t get. She was quite good at mathematics and taught me the subject with great skill. However, she opted for Home Economics. Her four years at college were a nightmare, not only for her but for us, too.
She became even more anorexic and lost quite a lot of her beautiful curly hair. Now that she’s completed her bachelors in foods and spends most of her time at home, she’s become the most pretty of us. I still remember her four years of hard work and insomnia. We pitied her then. Now, we envy her.
As my brother and I have been sharing the same computer for over seven years, we have this understanding between us on this issue. He can punch me, kick me and bang my head on the CD-Rom if he thinks that anything that goes wrong with the dumb machine is my fault. However, if he formats the computer six times and examines the modem 66 times just because the Internet doesn’t work (the telephone line is not connected), what do I get for telling him that in my most humble accent? (Never hurt a man’s ego by telling him that he’s wrong, says mom). Just a thank you with a toothy smile and a big “no” to my humble request to check my mail. No matter how much I try, I still can’t answer the following million-dollar questions: a) What made my brother allergic to girls; b) What tempts my brother the most — a convertible, a cat or Cameron Diaz; c) Will he ever stop being a gentleman and start acting like Johnny Bravo; d) Will my sister ever stop carping about her height; e) Will she ever buy high heels instead of khussay; f) Will I ever get to know my brother’s Internet password (It’s not Cameron Diaz’s new movie, I tried that already); g) Will my mother ever let me buy a guitar; h) Will my sister ever use the computer except for playing Pacman? i- Will she ever learn to make a pizza; (what happened to those four years of Home Economics); j) Why did the cheetah of Aladdin look like a skunk on my sister’s hand-made rug?
My shrink thinks I should try to recall all the good memories I have about my childhood whenever I have this sudden urge to kill my siblings. But you know what? This is definitely not working. So, I’m off to see my handsome shrink again while my brother talks with his friend on the net and my sister pretends not to hear me when I ask her to try and see if she can actually make pizza.
Nothing in the world binds like strong family ties, although there might still be strong undercurrents at play as well
