I remember watching my brothers play hopscotch when I was 5 or 6 years old.I had just woken up and was still rubbing my eyes, when my moth like ears tuned in to the playful squeals coming from the dry yet slightly grassy patch in front of our home.
Our home of mud, stone brick, blood, sweat and tears was flooded with the hopes and dreams of my parents and waves of expectations of my brothers. But between my perception of reality and the truth, there existed an ocean of possibilities and I just learned to swim in it- never really touching the shore, never really drowning. But that day- I came close.
Sweat beads on my forehead were already foreboding a brewing thunderstorm-Why did they start playing without me? Did I not help them pick up pebbles to make those numbered boxes? Did I not make those boxes too? Many years later I would realise that what I felt at that moment-Anger, didn’t taste or feel good- especially since I was not prepared for it.
I hastily walked outside and stood on one of the stone steps that would open up to that patch. My brothers who were each two years apart and few feet away from me- didn’t even acknowledge my presence. My cheeks flushed red and I hollered at the top of my voice: Not Fair!!! My younger brother immediately looked at me and stuck his tongue out. And, I responded the same way. This could have gone on forever, if it weren’t for my mother…
