by Parth Pandya
Was I meant to be born with a whistle?
Refereeing two parties, forever aggrieved –
Two pugilists in their own corners,
One in the blue pajamas and one in red.
That little combatant is slouching on the couch,
Hurt and tears clouding his eloquence.
“He did. It was he who is making me cry. Ask him,
Ask that big brother of mine.”
That accused is standing with his hands folded,
His face contorted in righteous anger.
“Ask him what he did before that. Ask him,
“Ask that little brother of mine.”
I linger in that moment of déjà vu.
I am the civilian in the cross hairs
Of two little men and their gigantic passions,
Each assuming my bias against them.
But silence gradually wins the fight
As words start simmering down,
Like a balloon losing its air
And then fluttering unpredictably.
Their fight lingers on in my mind,
But it has vaporised from theirs.
The memories of that passionate spat
Are buried under peals of laughter.
The contretemps are but reminders that
They often can’t stand each other.
Only reinforcing a truth that
They certainly can’t be without the other.