This blog is about the only guy in the world whom I put up with. In fact there may even be an iota of truth in the ridiculous suggestion made by the trout, that the mater(read Ma) loves him slightly more than me. Outrageous ideas like these are enough to make him the greatest enemy of my life but the curious observer in me decides otherwise.
While I often wish that I was not so much like a man - tough, hard-hearted - I cannot be less amazed by how sensible a man my brother has turned out to be.
He certainly chose some of the most amazing genes from our parents genetic pool to be born with. Although I may never speak about it, he does have a keen ear for music, an adorable sense of humour, love of math, a sense of responsibility, a kind heart filled with adoration for Ma and guts, gritty enough to tolerate the toughest of the hardships ever.
Soft-spoken and gentle-mannered, the bloke turned 19 yesterday, with a bang, literally. Spending one's engineering years in a hostel is supposed to make a man out of a boy. I hope that last two arduous nights of getting goal-kicks on the spine while being flung into the air at least teaches the little kid how-not-to-be.
My first experiment to carry a baby happened when I was 5, after watching a starved Somalian girl with her little brother clinging on to her side, on TV. When you are small, you don't feel sad for these things.The sample on my petre-dish was my nine-month old brother.Little, he was, but mind you,under no circumstances was he light:) I remember wishing I had extra arms like the Goddesses, so that the hefty, solid lump of putter stayed hoisted up. In his early months, my brother would rarely smile.That day as he slid down slowly from my incapable arms, a smile curled at the corner of his lips. Two little arms stretched out forward, suggesting I take him a second time! The slow motion downwards had caught his fancy, apparently.
Circular objects fascinate men, and my brother was no exception.He knew cars by their wheel caps long before he learnt their names.
I still remember how he would line up all of his Bugatti/Maisto miniature cars along the edge of the Persian rug that lay splayed in the center of out drawing room. He would then align his eyes with the tiny wheels of the cars and very gently inch them forward.
'You'll never win the race if you go this slow', I would chide.
'This is not a race. This is the highway and there is a traffic jam', he would mumble cutely, referring to the then eternally clogged Dubai-Sharjah highway.
I had to clean his holy shit:p many times but one occasion stands out clearly. It was open house in school and we were quite small(8 yrs and 3 yrs). The pest rolled his little Citroen on a desk while I read a book. Suddenly I smelt a faint but disgusting odour.
At the same time, the bloke got up from his chair, sniffed around, turned around with a start and realised what he had done.My eyes spilled fire at him.
I was pained at what I had to do next. The odour had started becoming stronger.How I managed the strategically impossible (Picking him up or making him run to the toilet would mean mashing the contents of his pants.)task of taking the messy boy to the toilet rather not be described.
I flew into a rage at home while the parents guffawed. "History repeats itself", I remember my father saying. Apparently he had put his elder sister through the same embarrassment and torture when he was small.
Today the dude says, 'Sis, we are more like friends these days, isn't it?'. I don't like the sound of it but I have to agree. I wonder, if these years of separation are becoming too long. Instant panic, and I speak for a few more minutes than usual. That's all I can do. In the meanwhile, a pimp called Vodafone, makes a lot of money.