A Scar to Remember

Now, I believe that time is a great healer...

A Scar to Remember

Some thing unusual has occurred which breaks my gentle nights sleep. I dreamed a scary dream again that awakened me from a slumber. It seemed it was like a continuation of the one I dreamed of a week hence. My heart beats incessantly that I have been gasping for breath.

I look at my wrist-watch and it’s fifteen minutes past twelve midnight. I soon realized that I have been clutching a familiar photo. Stirred by its sight, I looked at it even more closely. I obviously know the young man in the photo. I know him inside and out. He was my half-brother who made my childhood miserable.

I was five then; he was four years older. We only had one thing very common. He had a sharp memory, and was witty and smart. But how on earth could we be brothers and we had many things uncommon? I supposed that was the plain reason why we were disconnected and contrasting in almost everything, therefore conflicting.

I had been very assertive, the domineering type, the popular smart aleck. He was the insolent tyrant, the toughie kind who enjoyed lording over all my affairs. He hated the way I flushed with my childhood pleasure and pride. I had been very innocent, so naïve to think about justice, freedom and rebellion. He detested my little happiness, my little joy and excitement. He is from the Imperial and I am from the Alima. Mama had annulled her marriage to his father when she was just two. Papa reared and treated him as his own son. I knew he was envious of me. Sometimes he got mad at me for instruction I didn’t really understand. But eventually, he had to accept me and even took good care of poor little me and my younger siblings.

We grew up together. He had been odd and rude to me with each passing time. He used to punish me every time I did stupid mistakes. He wasn’t that kind who would just whip me with a stick or belt. There was a time he punished me by marking my left hand with a burning metal and that was a great ordeal! This left a scar on my left hand. There was even an instance when he had intended to push me down the high staircase. I thought that was the end of me. I didn’t tell Mama and Papa about this sadistic treatment to me for fear things would aggravate. Besides, my parents were too preoccupied to glimpse at us. Since then, I became very sickly. The hurtful feelings I bore still lingered in. The pain was overwhelming. I almost choked in the quagmire of pessimism.

Patiently, I endured all his cruelty. But my endurance and patients got some limits. It was he who taught me to be wild and vindictive. In the process, I learned to disagree and assert my rights firmly and we became like those troubled brothers in the neighborhood who squabbled and fought like cat and dog. More often than not we argued over trivial matters. We just couldn’t patch things up.

Such state went on for some years. But some time ago, I thought of ending our intensifying feud. I forced my self to be close to him. I tried to talk to him. I wanted him to be in good terms with me. I wanted him to share with me his little fears, his desires, his sentiments and even his life. But my efforts were all in vain. It was quite hard to understand him. I thought it was futile thing we could be the best of friends.

When I entered college, the turning point of my life had begun. I finally sought asylum for myself. I had never been a happy person until we parted our courses. He went back to his hometown where he wanted to find his destiny. I had wished him not to come so as to make my life a hell again. What a good design to get rid of him!

I started to live on my dreams. I kept myself busy in my college studies and in the student publication. I was like a happy bird, after being freed from the cage. Finally, the thorns have been extracted and I could breathe with relief. I was convinced to believe that life is beautiful and worth living for. What is only left to me is the scar of yesteryears – painful and bitter memories. But the trail of bitterness had suddenly changed and faded out rightly when one day my family received the stunning news which really shocked my world.

“No, he’s too vital, too fully alive to be dead!” was the wordless cry of my soul.
I felt a sudden stroke, an internal turmoil I could understand. Tears slowly streamed down my face. My soul refused to believe in what I heard. But it really was!

The funeral was huge. The cemetery was congested with mourners - overflowing with the family relatives. My brother’s death weakened my callous heart and humbled me. I moved toward the casket where he rested peacefully and I was silently crying.

“Manoy Sandro, sorry for having been too harsh to you,” my words were too soft and weak to be heard, my voice quivered.

“ We can be the best of friends, I believe we can see each other again in the time.”
I learned from his real father that he was hospitalized and laboratory diagnosis proved that he died of typhoid fever.

The long months of solitude slowly drained me of all thoughts and feelings. I now realized more deeply than ever before that despite the ill treatments he had inflicted in me I still love him because he is my brother. I was just badly clouded by my sentiments that I couldn’t afford to apologize to him for pride and arrogance’s sake. I misunderstood him. I had forgotten he was also common clay, very human like me. I couldn’t deny the fact that I have a share of my mistake too.

This time a surge of renewed life sweeps over me. I looked at the photo again. He looked blithe and happy on his posture. Maybe I won’t dream of that same dream again tonight. I checked my watch once again. The time is 5:30 a.m.