I must have been four and a half years old then. Although my
mother says its impossible to have a clear memory of things that happened at
that tender age, I strongly disagree. Because I know how clearly I can see that
incident in my mind. It still gives me goosebumps.
My brother, who is five years elder to me, wasn’t very fond
of me as far as I can remember. That particular day he took sibling hatred to a
new level. I have a deep scar at the back of my left hand as a reminder of his
hatred. The scar his hatred inflicted on my heart as a child, not even five
years of age, never really healed. Why else, would I be writing this now?
Our parents were away at work and our elder brother and
sister were at school. The four of us, aged between four and a half to around
seventeen, were left to ourselves until our parents reached home at night. My
mother worked very hard to make ends meet , shouldering responsibilities that my
father should have done but couldn’t be bothered to.
The day of the incident, we were ‘playing’, if you can call
it that. I am yet to find a word that adequately describes a situation where
everyday after waking up, I’d be in constant fear of when my brother will start
picking on me for no particular reason. Some mornings I'd pretend to be asleep till I could no longer lie in bed doing nothing. I’d be constantly afraid of what I may do
or say to trigger his hatred filled cruelty. Each day it was something new..I
have varied memories of ways in which he expressed his hate..from throwing
stones at me as I walked in front of him, to telling me he spit in the water he
brought for me to drink, to yelling at me at the top of his voice until I would
shiver and cry uncontrollably and cling to him hard instead of running away
from him. Because he was the only living thing in that terrifying, big house –
too big for a child to be alone in.
I keep digressing as memories flood in. Back to the day of
the incident, he lit a candle and we were burning things like paper and other
stuff. Him, because it was somehow fascinating to him and me, because I had no
choice but to join in to be ‘on his side’ so that he wouldn’t turn his
attention to making me the subject of his amusement.
He picked up a small blue plastic car and began burning it.
It melted and as I was watching drops of molten blue plastic pull away from the
illl fated toy, he held my hand under the bubbling, melting plastic and before
I knew it, a big blob of molten plastic fell on my hand. Its all in slow motion then on, as most
painful memories are. I don’t remember whether I screamed for my life or ran
crying. I cant really remember my reaction or his, in the moments that
followed. All I remember is seeing that huge drop of molten plastic embed
itself in my hand, burning through my tender skin and flesh, turning a darker
shade of blue than the toy car originally was. The drop solidified almost
instantly and was just stuck there in my hand, lifeless. As if it had always
been an odd extension protruding from the back of my hand.
I remember one thing clearly - he wasn’t scared after what
he had done. If there was any fear or remorse he did a good job of concealing
it because all he said as I cried in
pain at the horrific sight of plastic burning deeper into my flesh was that I
should let him remove it. I remember yelling, “No, I will show this to mummy
today”. I remember saying that because for me it was a daring act of defiance.
Everyday he’d threaten me that if I mentioned any acts of his cruel behavior towards
me to our mother, he would beat me up even more the next day because surely our
mother would go to work and we would be alone again.
Every day at the dinner table as we ate I’d think of telling
our mother everything he had done that day to make me cry and he, almost as if
telepathically reading my thoughts, would catch that quick nervous look I had
on my face a few minutes before I mustered the courage to announce at the table
how cruel he had been to me all through the day and as far as I could remember.
As my eyes met his, his stern message was conveyed to me with a quiet but powerful
force that made me sink back into my chair. My carefully gathered thoughts that
had nearly become words and finally become strong enough to leave my lips any
minute returned to my heart, taunting me that I would NEVER have the courage to
speak up. Mission accomplished, my brother’s stern look would disappear as if it
were never there and in its place would be a triumphant grin. A content look of
satisfaction that he was safe because I was too much of a coward to rat him out.
I’d finish my meal quietly, unlike any child of that age you
may have seen. This always went unnoticed
because in my family dinnertime was far from those happy mealtimes we see in
movies where family members love each other and cant hear enough about how each
person’s day went. Dinner times were the only times that our family sat
together. Yet for us, it was a matter of getting it quickly done and dusted so
that we could sleep. Our mother would serve us, quickly and quietly. There was
no question of fussing about whatever dish was served.
I realize now how
tiring it must have been for my mother, to cook dinner for six within an hour
or so of reaching home from work. I don’t remember her ever sitting down to
relax for five minutes after returning from work. I guess with four hungry
children around, any mother would forget her own comfort and jump right into
cooking and serving dinner. Even as kids, we all knew better than to hassle her with our petty issues.
That day though, I felt it was very important for me to be
the center of my mother’s universe atleast while I told her how I have been
suffering. I wanted her undivided
attention and hoped that she would resolve the matter for me, once and for all.
After the molten
plastic drop solidified on my flesh I ran and hid under our huge dining table
and refused to come out from there for my brother to pull it out of my flesh. Whether
he wanted to destroy evidence or get sadistic pleasure from watching me suffer
the pain of having my flesh torn away with the plastic, I don’t really know.
But I swore I’d show it to mummy and hoped he would get a sound spanking that day.
I don’t know how many
hours I sat there or how I managed to wait until my mother was home. I don’t
remember where our elder brother and sister were after they returned from
school. Did I show them what had happened? Did they try to help me? I cant
remember any of that. What I do remember is choosing a safe moment to come out
of hiding to run to mummy in the kitchen. I remember dodging my brother as he
pounced on me to have me reconsider whether I really wanted to complain to
mummy and face him the next day.
I remember crying my eyes out as I stood there
looking up at mummy, holding up my hand for her to see what her son had done to
me. I remember being in her way as she rushed from the kitchen table to the
stove, with some ingredients in hand that needed to be quickly added to
whatever she was cooking. I remember saying, see what he did to me today and
just as I came in her way, she yelled at me without looking at my outstretched
hand,” Go and sit in the hall room, out of my way..”. I don’t remember whether
she told me to ‘sit in the hall room’ or ‘go and play elsewhere’ ..but I
remember it stung like a slap. It felt like the confirmation of what my brother
told me everyday without fail..”she loves me more than you..she dosent love
you..she hates you..she never wanted you..we were happy before you were born...
You were a mistake..I am their pet..”.
He had probably been watching from outside the kitchen
because just as I stepped outside, he did a little victory dance and confirmed
for me, “I told you, she wont care”.
The only consolation was that he went easy on me the next
day. I wasn’t the same inside. Something had changed. I was still a coward. I
still hugged him when he yelled at the top of his voice to scare me. I still
cried sitting by his side when he pretended to be dead. But I never thought
about complaining to my mother again.
Maybe this incident and a series of others made me the way I
am now..Today I despise any show of helplessness or submissiveness in women.
Maybe because it reminds me of the coward I was. Even as a child I hated myself
for being unable to gather the courage to fight back or speak up. The anger, even
disgust that I feel for women who quietly tolerate injustice or being ill
treated is actually the disgust I feel for myself, for the way I was. Even
though I was a child, I am still unforgiving about how meek and scared I was
and how easy it was to put me down.
Maybe these memories make me react just a little more
strongly than most women would, to hear about instances of women being ill
treated.
I spent a good part of my teenage years trying to convince
my mother that all these incidents werent merely instances of sibling rivalry.
She spent all those years trying to convince me that I am super sensitive..
that her son only behaved like any child of that age would behave. She kept
telling me that all brothers and sisters fight and I kept telling her that not
all brothers would suffocate their seven year old sister with a pillow, hoping
she would die so he could be the family favorite again.
Years ago we stopped talking about it because my mother and
I feel like we are talking to a wall when this ugly topic rears its head occasionally.
Today my brother and I have our own families. We politely
interact as much as is necessary. Though
I can say for sure that I don’t hate him, I still search for an answer when I
ask myself whether I truly love him as much as any other sister would love her
brother despite all the childish wars that form an essential part of growing
up.
I remember something that I said to him ages ago in a rare
moment we were talking about the past, “You could have been my best friend, the
first person I’d turn to for help when someone at school bullied me. You could
have protected me. Instead, YOU were my greatest fear. And you continued to
scare me knowing that I had nobody to turn to.”
Today, some seventeen odd years later, as I look at the scar
at the back of my left hand, those words still hold true. That scar dosent look as horrible as I thought
it would. The one on my psyche probably does.
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