Sweet ‘n’ sour

Sweet ‘n’ sour

I don’t remember how it started or why my brother who is 2 years elder to me began to narrate this tale about his trip to Pakistan with our parents. But this is how it happened. One afternoon sitting by the window in the lobby propped up against a cushion he began to tell me about this famous holiday he and our parents took to visit their friends in Pakistan. He said they went without me because I was not yet born, which seemed a very logical answer to my suspicious mind. You see, I do not trust just about anything people tell me and ever since my brother started to tell me this story I began to trust people even less.
Alas, as long as the story goes it was a good one. Here is how it went- Anna, big brother, was two years old and my parents all young and big time voyagers. They took a flight from Delhi to Pakistan one fine morning and reached there in a matter of a few hours. It was the first time Anna took a flight, which meant that in this family of four I was the least favored because I was never taken anywhere on a plane yet.
Thus, they reached Pakistan and Anna being the only baby in the group and being seen for the first time by my parent’s friends was much fawned upon. From the airport they reached the magnificent house of these friends of my parents who, I gathered by now, were highly successful people with a lot of money. My parents had a complete guest room to themselves in their grand big all white spotless house with an attached bathroom the size of the lobby we were sitting in. And my brother had another room decorated specially for a boy which the couple never had!
Thus he was the master of this big all boy’s room stuffed with all kinds of toys any boy could ever ask for. Of course Anna’s happiness knew no bounds as he played with one toy after another, spread out the enormous train set with all its little bridges and ravines. And boy was he glad not to have a pesky little sister to share everything with yet! He was the undisputed master of the room, even if temporarily, and he was intoxicated by it.

So, for days the story went on, afternoon after afternoon like a TV serial with many episodes. Unquestionably, Anna was the central character of the plot and he was certainly making the most of his holidays in the house of a very rich young couple without kids.
I began to look forward to the story day after day with eagerness that would be hard to contain if he took longer to finish his lunch or when he asked me to bring him a glass of water from the fridge or cut him a salad while he changed because on this particular day he just wanted to eat a salad or would never be able to touch his food etc etc. Automatically his desires translated into me carrying them out with as little complaint as possible to ensure that he ate fast and that he did not loose his good humor.
Then, we would settle down on the bed in the lobby. Me all expectant to hear of his exploits in a land I had never set my foot in and people I had never met.
I agree the entire thing had the appeal of a magic tale to it but everything he said was so do-able like the time he took a box of tools and hammered a dozen of them in the pristine white Turkish shit pot and later not seeing anything wrong in using the toilet, he sat and went potty.
I mean, he could have spoken about flying carpets and unicorn, treks in the cold deserts and stumbling upon lost treasures but he spun tales so realistic that I bought it all and impatiently awaited the rest.
.
Then one day, just by chance I asked my mother, while still relishing the sweet tale of the messy dinner he made for everyone one evening in Pakistan, as to why do we not visit their friends in Pakistan once again, all four of us this time that the truth finally showed it’s un-solicited for face. My mother gave me a look of ‘what’s wrong with this girl’ look. She categorically told me that they did not have any friends in Pakistan and that never did they ever take a trip to that land either. And just like that she continued to bustle around the kitchen with her preparations for dinner…

The news broke my heart. Just in the same way it did when years later after I finished reading ‘To sir with love’ my eyes unsuspectingly fell on the word written in minuscule letters on the creased binding of the paperback- ‘Fiction’.