My mother often laments after my brother, Amir and I have had one of our nasty yet regular spats, that we were so nice to each other as children. And for some reason, whenever she does, I can see it in my mind – an old snapshot of the two of us (for it has always been just the two of us) in our pajamas in our parents’ room, plastic containers on our heads, pretending we were at the market, just before breakfast.
With that excellent memory of hers, my mother can recall the days when I actually anticipated my brother’s birth (something I find hard to believe now). I was so keen on being a big sister, I had volunteered to do away with my Pampers far before my time – a decision much regretted by my parents, as they apologized to the cleaner lady at a shopping mall, after my first attempt at being diaper-free.
My mother says that I was a doting sister, who took pride in my brother’s full Beatles’ 60’s mop and constantly showered him with kisses and hugs – a scene I would have even greater difficulty believing, were it not for the many pictures of us as toddlers, my arm dangerously positioned in a strangle-hug around my brother’s neck. There were clearly no homicidal tendencies; just pure sisterly affection.
And then, my mother recounts in a slightly wistful tone, I went to school and started yelling at my brother. Everytime she tells us that bit, I almost don’t have the heart to tell her that as far back as kindergarten, I played by social rules. And the sick social rules back then was that younger siblings were uncool. Basically, all younger kids were uncool. And I lived with one, so I was in the high-risk category. Or so my twisted six-year-old mind thought.
I used to bully Amir all the time. We both learned Taekwondo from a young age, and I was especially generous with my punches and slaps. I distinctly remember a regretful encounter that ended with my brother having an imprint of my palm straight on his back – which lasted for some time. We feared our mother to a fault, and that meant that anything bordering profanity – even the word ‘idiot’ – was forbidden. Physical revenge (hidden from Mama, of course) was the only means we had, and we were well trained in it. I took advantage of my age and size all the time.
It horribly backfired by the time I reached twelve, and my brother started growing at a faster rate. All he had to do was pull my arm back in a fierce lock, and I would start apologizing for anything and everything profusely.
It can’t have been nice, being him. I’ve only recently learnt how awful the teachers at school were, always comparing him to me. The first child apparently sets the standard. Right. He was never good enough, it seemed to be implied. But in every way, he was the better child. He had sound common sense (something I sorely lack), natural intelligence (another missing feature of mine), a critical mind (which people seldom listen to, much to their loss), charming genteel manners (which make even little baby girls blush with admiration), a solid religious foundation, and overwhelming patience and faith in the human spirit. He was never judgemental, except maybe to his own flaws – but never in others. He always saw the good in people.
I always forget that behind his rough exterior, he has a huge, warm heart – tender and easily hurt when betrayed.
My big little brother is strong in many ways; fragile in others. And I can’t believe that he’s all grown up. He got accepted into Law Matriculation at the International Islamic University. He’s happy, going off to do something he excels at (talking his way out of messes) and he’s doing something I never had the guts to. It’s unchartered territory. He’s slightly scared but excited, I can tell, even a continent away.
I’ve taken to the habit of looking up old Beatles’ hits lately, and as I listen out for the familiar chords and drum cues, I’m constantly struck by the image of my brother and me, arguing over Paul or John’s lyrics as we struggled for elbow-resting space on the seven-hour car trip to our mother’s hometown.
And when I found this song, I knew I could share it with no one else.
You and I have memories
Longer than the road that stretches
Out ahead.
Labels: music, nostalgia, self-reflections