REMINDERS



Each time people ask me why I don't get mad angry, I see her grin. The before and after, merging together, slicing a bit off my heart...

Saturday mornings. I hated them, still do. That Saturday though, was way more irksome. My (not biological) elder sister had gone to the village to visit her parents, so I was stuck cleaning the rooms. My ire was palpable. I was done with the living room, the kitchen and my parents' bedroom. It was time for the parlour upstairs, and I confronted it like a girl possessed. My younger sister came upstairs to watch movies and I told her to go downstairs and do it. She told me that my elder brother was already watching a movie downstairs, and plopped down on a chair.

My resentment was growing. She didn't clean anywhere and she wasn't going to, because she wasn't old enough to use a mop, but she was old enough to disregard me and comfortably watch movies when I explicitly told her too. I saw red, and yes, I know, but it's not a figure of speech. It's more like red film clouding your mind and seeing only that colour, just for a moment. I forcefully shoved her off the chair.

The cry was earsplitting. My sister had fallen on her face. Scratch the former sentence, it was a wail. No, a scream. She looked at me and kept screaming. I could feel the pain she was in, but something kept distracting me. There was something off about her face. Something missing. She screamed again, and I saw it. A broken tooth. I started crying. I regretted the shove right after I had done it, but the broken tooth was far more disastrous. We were both crying when our older brother came upstairs.

My parents were furious, and worse, disappointed. The words I got from them were crushing, but it was nothing compared to looking my sister in the face. That evening, while cooking, she came to help, and I kept on apologising. She didn't even see it as a big deal. Told me she knew that it was an accident, and that kind of thing made people angry. I looked at her tooth and it wasn't as bad as I thought it was. A little part was missing, and it kinda made her cuter. The grin still hurt though, knowing that I did that.

I thought about that incident for a long while. What if the broken tooth was worse than I thought. What if it was not as bad, but made her less cute. What if I'd broken something else. A million what-ifs. I still get angry, but I never take it out on people again. I'd rather beat myself up than do that.

Now I have a reminder, and each time people ask me why I don't get mad angry, I see her grin...

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Last day of February

Last Day of February Mood - Nostalgic 29-02-2020 The worst part about remembering is the pain It's bittersweet sometimes, rips you apart most times though How things were before the rain We were all close before reality came like a foe You'd think of how happy you were, and weep Those days are gone, never to be gotten back All the laughter, the escapades, the talks that were deep The sync, the glances, the love we didn't lack It's nobody's fault, the way things are now Life happened, we grew apart Really, I'm living as good a life as I know how It's just, the memories seep in, twisting this heart Funny thing is that I know we'll have nothing to say If we run into each other Cause we're not the same again, at least not that way We'd smile, make small talk, and it'll kind of be a bother I just hope that wherever you guys are, you're good And that you cherish these memories like I do I want to know if you ever get in...
Read more

WE'D NEVER HEAL...

We'd Never Heal... The scars would never leave, etched on our hearts. Mama’s voice, pleading. Papa screaming into her face. Each night, the belt would leave his trousers and caress Mama’s skin. We’d huddle in a corner, our breaths hitching, afraid to make a sound. We’d learned, from the day Dimma had tried to intervene. The welts gifted to her lectured us. Mama’s voice soon stopped. She took it, for days, without a sound. She should have known better. Papa liked her pleading. He dropped his beloved weapon and picked up the stool. I still hear the crack when it landed on Mama’s head. I kept hearing the crack when I picked up the fork on the table. The crack got louder when Papa looked at me, shock on his face as I rushed to him, my weight knocking him down. The crack became an anthem, in sync with the fork as I stab-stab-stabbed Papa. All the fear, the hate, the pain, flowing through those three prongs. I was still stabbing when Dimma dragged me away, the crack resonating in my head...
Read more