So You Think You Can Write: Life's not Fair

  As I looked at his face, all the memories flooded back to me:

We had met when we were both small – small enough to not know that I was a poor street boy and he was rich. I don’t remember much about the years of my life before I met him, but what I do remember is that I was lonely and had no friends. A sentence to life of poverty topped with the fact that I was the youngest of twelve and neither they nor the neighbours’ kids took notice of me. With twelve children, my parents had to work all day long. My father was a tenant farmer and my mother worked as a maid in at least fifteen different houses. My brothers helped my father in the fields and my sisters were sent away to work as maids, cooks or babysitters. But I was constantly falling ill, requiring a doctor’s help and depriving my parents of the little they earned. I was no use to the family as I couldn’t help my father in the fields like my brothers did, and I knew that everyone was waiting for my death. Once in a while, as I watched the children play, the elder ones used to bully me. They used to catch me by the neck, beat me up and call me a bony wimp.

 One grey morning, as I was sitting at the door step, being trod by all who entered and exited, I felt an urge to run away – away from my family, away from my home and away from life. I mustered up all my guts and started to run where my heart led me. A minute or two later, my weak and weary body gave in and I had to walk. I walked till I ended up in front of the rusty remnants of a gate, closed, but unbolted. The door gave a shrill, ear-piercing squeak as I pushed it open. The other side of the gate was a beautiful sight. For a person who had never before been in the outside world, it was heavenly. It was a garden, adorned with the richness of nature – the golden sun reflected by the flowing waters, birds chirping in glorious trees with bright red apples hanging on them. I helped myself with as many apples as I could eat. I headed back home before sundown. I was expecting my parents or one of my brothers to spank me, like how they used to when I said I was hungry or feeling sick. But no one seemed to have noticed that I was gone.

 I went there the next few days, stuffing myself with apples and returning before sundown. Going there was like light in darkness, water in a desert and royalty in the midst of poverty. Going there brought refreshment to my little soul. One day, when I was in the garden, I heard footsteps, the grass crunching under their feet. They seemed to be running. I quickly climbed up a tree and hid there. It was a boy of my age and I could see that his face was red with anger. He sat on the grass next to the steam. Hugging his legs, he cried. I got down and introduced myself. He was a bit surprised, but didn’t say anything. He got up and left. The next day, he was there before I arrived. He just said ‘hi’ and ran away. The third day, he talked. I came to know that I was on his property. He told me about his family. His father was a very rich official in the army, probably one of the richest and most respected in the country. His mother had died when he was born and he was the only child. He had servants who would obey his every word.

 Despite the differences we had, our problem was the same. We didn’t have any friends. So, every day we met in the apple garden, talked, had fun, and ate. He brought his books along and taught me how to read, write and do math. I even learned some history and politics. We used to do his homework together. Sometimes, he sneaked a piece of chicken from his lunch into a white cloth for me to eat. When I fell, he used to fake my symptoms and get medicines prescribed by his doctor and gave them to me. Whenever I told him about life in poverty, he felt sorry for me.

 “Life’s not fair…” I used to say.

 “But that doesn’t matter,” he said.

 “The way you deal with it,”

 “Is what really matters.”

  We were both seven when we met, and our brotherly relationship that lasted for five years was closer than a paper stuck to a wall.

  The day that the paper was stripped away is still vivid in me. When I went to the apple orchard that day, he wasn’t here. I found a note placed on the rock were we used to sit and talk. The note read:

“I have bad news. I’m being sent to training for the army. I’ll be back in twelve years. Meet me here.”

That was it. No goodbyes, no hugs, no ‘I’ll miss you’-s. He just – left.