The Smart and the Ordinary

Another year. Another milestone. Another day of festivities all across the country. At the school from where my younger brother and I graduated, children will gather, sweets will be distributed and there will be songs and dances all around. The melody of freedom will be in the air. Further north, at the public playground now plagued and shrunken by encroachers, a much-anticipated event will take place later in the day – a soccer game between two rival teams in the neighborhood.

There was a time when my brother and myself were major players in these events but this time around he will be a lone spectator. I have since moved away to a greener pasture a long, long time ago. Being the youngest, with no one paying much attention to him, my brother always valued our friendship and had once suggested that we should stick together-‘always’. I thought otherwise. "Like sharks”, I remember coaching him, “one must keep moving, lest we drown".
Today, we both have moved beyond the fun and frolicking days of yesteryears to the mundane settings of a grownup life. Our lives, now oceans apart, have taken different routes and meanings. Independence Day to me is a day of rest, except in the evening when I drive up to a neat spot to enjoy a million-dollar worth of fireworks illuminating the night-sky. For my brother it has always been a rather serious matter. He would get up early in the morning, glance at the flag he had ‘hoisted’ on our rooftop, ‘decorate’ his bike with another flag and ride around town, ‘enjoying freedom’. We always thought this was his gimmick at getting attention, but his routine continues, even to this day. The only difference now is that his bike has given way to a car. He also votes on election days (unlike anyone else in our family) and loves to show off those indelible ink marks on his thumb. The rest of us, meanwhile, felt comfortable watching TV, knowing fully well that our vote doesn’t make a difference. “You are all cynics”, he would say, “things will change soon”.

After more than five decades, things didn’t seem to change much when I visited him recently. The ‘city of lights’ where he now lives with his wife and two young sons, was shrouded in darkness for almost the whole period I was there. Frequent power outages, sound of gunshots at night and a casual reference to the dead and dying in the morning papers had become a routine. Corruption and other evils of society had made deep inroads into the social fabric. Like Karachi, the whole country was in despair and one could almost feel a hint of cynicism all around. I wanted to talk to my brother about the issues, offer advice, but strangely enough he avoided talking about it whenever I broached the subject. It became obvious that he would not admit that there was anything wrong anywhere and he always put up a defense. “ For everything bad that you talk about, I can show you at least ten that are good in here”, he argued. “ You talk about a lone gunman who killed thirty at the masjid and equate him with all that is ill in here but you failed to notice the thirty God-fearing individuals who, despite all the difficulties in life, were thankful enough to get up so early and offer their prayers”. Obviously, he was not prepared to listen to what I had to say and our conversations would go nowhere. He was no longer the kid who would look up to me for solutions. For the first time he challenged my thoughts. Since my visit was short I wanted to keep it pleasant and therefore avoided heated arguments. On the day of my departure I remember thinking that perhaps our childhood friendship has been the first casualty of my visit.

Heading back home my plane took a semi-U-turn as it slowly climbed up into the clouds. From my window seat, I looked down to have a peek at the playground and our school building but things looked blurred in the evening haze. The only memory I was taking back was the painful thought of loosing a wonderful childhood friend and companion. The image of my brother and his two young sons struggling in the jungle of the Klashinkov culture crowded my eyes. I thought about our conversation the other night and wondered whether he really was angry that I had not ‘stuck’ with him all these years. Maybe he was jealous that I was doing better than he was. But then if he was angry or jealous that was not my undoing. After graduation we both had the chance to seek better opportunities and he had, on his own accord, opted to stay behind.

I relaxed as the plane began to cruise at a constant speed and height, way above the clouds. “We are not responsible for other peoples actions”, I said to myself as I tried to settle down and forget the days and events I was leaving behind. It was time to sit back, take a deep breath and think ahead. In no time I was asleep, comfort in the thought that things have worked out for me. The dream this time, way up in the sky, was the same that I usually have at the end of a stressful day. Something that had its roots in a play I had read during my college years.

Two friends move to a new city. One gifted with good looks and a very pleasing personality and the other an everyday Joe. I called them the Smart and the Ordinary. One day Ordinary tells his friend about his object of desire.” Someone I see everyday, standing on the balcony over there, perhaps waiting for my move,” he confesses to his friend.

"Sorry my dear friend," says Smart, "she’s comes over there for me". We have been corresponding for sometime and I am writing her another letter today. But if you think ..."

“ No! No! It was my mistake, I thought…” Ordinary walks away without completing his sentence.

The letter from Smart is intercepted and a note from the girl’s father asks him to come over and talk to him or ‘bring your parents’. Smart takes his friend with him.

Before they could step into the house, the father announces, "You should listen to me carefully before you venture past the doorstep. My daughter, whom I presume one of you wants to marry, has all the qualities you will find in a good wife except that she’s deaf and cannot speak. If you want to talk further you may come in and if you walk away I will understand".

Smart struggles with himself and slowly walks away, Ordinary stays behind saying," I cannot see myself stepping out ... one does not walk away from the things one loves".

The plane hit an air pocket and I was awake again. All of a sudden my dream, these recurring images, began to make sense. My life with my brother has been the life of the Smart and the Ordinary. I was the Smart one here.

We both had professed love to the land of our birth, yet somehow I managed to get more in return than my brother. Being the elder I had advantages he could never have. This made me more confidant and, a better schooling followed. I won the admiration and adulation of friends and family. All this because I was born to a position that he could not compete with and I ended up as the ‘genius’ in the family. However, when it came down to giving back I simply ‘walked away’ because I thought I deserved better. My brother certainly could have followed me but he stayed behind. He had lived the life of the Ordinary, knowing his limitations and learning to struggle against odds. He could accept the shortcomings of the place we both thought we loved and yet I didn’t. No, he was not jealous the other night when we argued, he was not bitter either but he certainly resents remarks from someone who was never there to take care of the schools, the playgrounds, and the land that has given us so much while we were growing up. Why should he let the Smart One speak ill of something that he has loved and cherished all along.

Come August 14th, I know there will be a flag fluttering proudly on the rooftop of a small house somewhere in the port city. I know there will be a crowd enjoying the events at school and the playground. Two kids in tow, my brother too will be there. His younger one perhaps will cling tightly to the older for security and comfort.

The kids are not old enough to participate now. Come tomorrow, I don’t expect them to sit idle and complain about the conditions in the playing field and then walk away. I am sure they will be out there, challenging the corrupt and the inefficient. They will dare the encroachers and the officers who have illegally given away parts of playground, parts of our childhood, to unscrupulous builders. Soon enough the playground will be taken back and things will start to get better. These children are not the ones to abandon their playground for something better, only to reminisce about it later in life. They are not interested in writing about history; they are the ones who make history. They are the sons of the Ordinary.

Happy 52nd brother, hold on to your dreams. For it is the dream of today from which tomorrows are made.