I should not have done that. I could have acted differently. Blah blah blah. So much I could come up with when I look back at my life and list out the things I could have done differently. I have mentioned many times in many of my previous posts that I have absolutely no regrets regarding anything I have done in the past, but still, some things, though it may seem funny now, could have been done differently. More amusing is the fact that all of those incidents involve my brother and I realized that just now, as I was trying to list them out. I know, I have done quite a lot of stupid things, but then, haven't we all at some point in our lives?
One of the earliest incidents I remember goes back to when I was maybe 8 years old, and my brother was 4. I remember it being a regular weekday evening when we were back from school and we kicked off our uniforms and shoes and ran towards our neighbors house, which was right behind ours. There was some construction going on and so there were a lot of bricks, sand, tiles, stones etc lying around. We played by making use of those materials and either built mock houses or just dug deeper into the sand. The neighbor smart ass kid who played with us took improvisation to new heights when he decided to pick up a foot long pointed tile, hold it in his hand and spin around non stop, while shouting "helicopter, helicopter." After a few impressive spins, the blades of his helicopter (read tile) slipped from his hands. Exactly at that moment, my brother who was ignoring the helicopter act all this while, decides to see for himself what the big deal was, and he turns around. The tile that slipped, glides with perfect aerodynamics and precision, as if it was controlled by a radar, and hits my brother hard, less than a centimeter above his left eye. Shocked that his black hawk was down, the neighbor kid jumped the walls and disappeared. That left me alone at the scene of the crash, along with my brother who was down on the ground in a small pool of blood, bloody enough to make me faint. What do I do? What do I do? Well, I casually slip away from the scene, leaving my brother behind, and I head back home as if nothing happened. My folks asked me where my brother was and I told them that he was still playing. The anxiety made me want to take a dump and I decided to go hide in the toilet. A few minutes later I think my brother managed to get up and he slowly walked towards home. My parents heard him cry and rushed down and saw him covered in blood. He was rushed to the hospital and a few stitches took care of it. I will just leave it at that. I am not even going to go into the sound thrashing I got and very much deserved. To this day, I don't know why I act that way.
Maybe around 5 or 6 years ago, my brother was admitted to a hospital because he had to be treated for some problem he had with his appendix. It was not being removed, but he had to be admitted for a few days and undergo some medication and many rounds of drips. My dad and I took turns to stay with him and offer our assistance. At nights, it was my duty to watch when one drip bag is empty and inform the nurse, who would come and replace it with a new bag. This process went on for a few days. The first night I stayed there, I was given instructions on what to watch out for and whom to call. I remember turning off the lights and hitting the bed. I did not wake up until morning. It seems that my brother tried his best to wake me up in the night when the drip was over and it was time to be changed. He called and called and even raised his voice and tried to wake me. No use. In the end, he gave up and he managed to rise up on his own. He got out of bed, lifted the drip bag, tube and the stand on which it is hung, with the needle still poked into one of his arms, and carried it out of the room and went and called the nurse himself. Once again, I am not going to mention about the sound blasting I got from the nurse in the morning. That was the last night duty I had. My dad took over from the next day onwards.
I save the best for last. This one is my personal favorite but a really cruel and wicked one. Rewind back to when I was maybe 7 or 8 and my brother was 3 or 4, approximately. It might have been a weekend and I might have felt real bored and could not think of what better things to do, so I walk into the bathroom and turn on the geyser or water heater. I let it heat up for a few minutes so that the water would become boiling hot. Once that was done, I call my unsuspecting brother and tell him that I have a magic trick to show him. I very gently lead him into the bathroom. Imagine a cute little goat that has been looked after well, only that it has no clue it is going to be slaughtered soon. Well, that probably describes my brothers position. I lead him into the bathroom and ask him to close his eyes and stretch out his hands, which he did with unmatched trust, the kind that is hard to find. I place his hand under the tap and with great pleasure I turn on the boiling hot water. Poor kid came to catch some magic, and walked off with a burnt hand. I got my share of thrashing again, but this time I really got a lot more than that. The very next day, my cousins were visiting and we were going out on a trip. I was ironing my clothes, when as if by the hand from above, the hot iron box lost balance and fell on my right arm. I pulled my arm off and the whole thing was over in less than one second, but the iron had already ripped of a fair amount of skin from my arm and the scar remains to this very day, though it is almost invisible now. It's probably going to be a mute reminder to how well I got paid back for something I really should not have ever done.
I can't help but stare at the scar again and again as I glance at my arm while typing this out. The first two incidents happened because, that is how I am. That's me, but this one is probably something I wish I could wipe out. It's just not me.
2 hours ago
