Thursday, July 20, 2006

Fighting with my brother (1985-1995)


My elder brother's name is Kiran. He takes after my mother, big built, strong bones, ferocious strength and a ruthless fearlessness, altogether not really a person to mess around with. All this toughness hid a soft heart inside it but that's besides the point as, being his younger brother, I believed it was my birthright to pester the sanity out of him, and once insane he really was a terror. There was hardly a year and four months difference in age between Kiran and me. This was negligible enough for my parents to treat us like twins and so if my parents got wind that my brother and I fought, both of us would get a thrashing. That would be my second thrashing of the day since I would already have got a thrashing during the fight. However, logic not being my forte, fight I would, and emerge with a black eye and an appointment with a bamboo cane I would.

Our fights usually broke up when we hear dad's car honk from the workshop half a kilometer from the house. A frantic attempt to hide all traces of the fight would begin. Book cases would be made upright, bruises would be hidden, floors would be cleaned and by the time the car reaches home both of us would be in our respecting rooms buried inside our school textbooks. When I grew up I realized that it was the textbooks that gave us away. We weren't exactly Einstein wannabes to study when no one was home and dad knew that. So, when he came home, if both of us were studying, a fight had just taken place. Out would come the bamboo cane and my brother and I would begin our dance around mom's legs to try and land the cane in the least painful spot.

I've tried many ways to avoid this. I remember once I ran to the balcony and threatened to jump. Dad closed the door back to the house and said that if there was any way I come down, it would be by jumping. After putting me through a miserable afternoon in the burning summer sun he let me in at tea time and I quietly took my caning. I never tried that again. Another time I refused to eat after getting the beating. Mom told my brother that he could pick whatever he wanted from my place. The delicious chicken legs that were on my place disappeared in an instant. It was all I could do to save my dessert by screaming out that I would eat. After many such failed attempts I learned to take my thrashing and also control my urge to pester my brother. I guess that's what they call growing up. To those who haven't yet done that, let me inform you, it is a very painful process.

1 comment:

Anand said...

That was hilarious!! I have always felt a little sorry for those who grew up without siblings, missing out on life experiences to write something funny like this.

1985 - 1995 ?? Shouldn't it be 1985 - present? ;-))