The Brother and Sister you could never be

I grew up in a little neighbourhood where everyone knew everyone, and sometimes knew each other a tad too well. I mean, you could hear people brushing their teeth, flushing toilets and fighting and fucking and all of that. Okay, maybe not fucking – but you know – nothing ever remained hidden. And while everyone had their flaws and deficiencies, there was universal acceptance and love for all. That’s a lot of bullshit, but you know, generally we all got along more or less alright. But there was this one family – particularly this brother and sister duo - who weren’t a part of this self assured middle class ring of acceptance. The sister was obese, had a failed marriage and was rarely seen. The brother had flunked several times in school, got kicked out of college, rode fast cars and bikes, had many girlfriends, drank a lot of alcohol and probably did drugs. Oh and listened to “English music” really loud.

Our buildings were connected, and our verandas were diagonally opposite to each other. Which meant I could always get a whiff of this guy’s cologne every time he stood there, and get to listen to all his loud English music and all of that. What’s more, we shared a common garage, so he often came to over to our apartment to ask for the car keys whenever he had to move our car in order to take his one out. He was always courteous, very charming and extremely respectful to my parents.

My family is not particularly judgemental, but for some reason or the other, we were warned constantly about not becoming like “them”. I was a fat kid. Every time I took an extra helping of dessert or something, my folk would be like – “You’ll become like her!” referring to the sister. When my brother and I would crank up the volume and listen to “hard rock” (read Bryan Adams), they’d be like, “You’re behaving just like that boy!” obviously referring to our neighbourhood bad boy, the brother.

Needless to say, I was fascinated by this forbidden fruit. The guy was exceptionally good looking, smelled like heaven, and had a way with words. All he’d say when he’d ring the bell to our house was “Chabi?” and I’d be weak kneed with shyness and infatuation. When I cycled past him in the evening, he’d smile, flashing those deep, gorgeous dimples and my heart would pound crazily and I’d do my best to hide my flushed cheeks. If he asked me a question, I’d stutter, or almost always never hear properly (who could hear over the boom-bitty-boom of my foolish heart?). But all the while, I’d be his biggest retractor. I’d gossip viciously about him, judge his every move and joke about his drunken escapades. The guy was unravelling, quite clearly in front of everyone’s eyes and we were all amused spectators. Everyone followed his every move, and proceeded to dismiss him...and of course, issued warnings to their kids – “Don’t become like him”. I smiled at him, with practised hypocrisy on days when I felt particularly confident, and he’d always smile back. Sometimes I’d even ask him something – trivial and unnecessary – and be completely drained by the effort at the end of it – but he’d always reply politely, graciously. I had converted him into some kind of demi-god inside my head, I knew that of course, and hated being such a hypocrite – but I had a feeling he knew anyway. He had no doubt, I’m sure, that this overweight, boy-girl, of all of fourteen was hopelessly in love with him. And he probably had a quiet chuckle about it.

I’m almost the same age as he was, now. I’m not exactly what you call a role model for younger kids. Sure, I’ve passed my school, college and have a master’s degree – but I live recklessly, stupidly and what do you know, I’m still overweight. I’ve achieved no great feats, and I’m sure if I were still living in that old neighbourhood of mine, I’d be gossiped about occasionally (God, we were a bored lot). I’ve met many guys like him since, and obviously, as you are wont to find out as you grow up, these so called “bad boys” are everywhere – unravelling, waiting for you to Florence Nightingale them at all their weakest moments. Also pathetically abundant are these shy fourteen year olds with whimsical attitudes and raging hormones, dying to “take care” of a bad boy.

The guy’s still on the same path. He still lives in the cloistered confines of our old neighbourhood. He got married, had a kid, got divorced, his family moved away and he bought a dog. He still rides a bike, still gets drunk, but unfortunately is not as good looking as he used to be. It’s his birthday today, and I remembered almost ten years ago, I dropped in a little chocolate éclair inside his letterbox anonymously as a birthday present. When I checked again later with tremendous trepidation, I found that the éclair wasn’t there. Either he picked it up, or threw it. I don’t know. But it wasn’t there. Which means, he found it. And I was so thrilled with that, that even today, I smile about it sometimes.

When I read Joyce’s “Araby”, I thought of him. And all the jazz about the quest for the Holy Grail, being in love with the idea of love etc, etc. I still look for him wherever I go. Forbidden fruit, dangerous love. Hehe. Happy Birthday Bad Boy. I never outgrew you, I think.