Parental Issues of a Twenty Something.

The green pullover that he had put on hung loosely along his body contours. A crease here, an indefinite line along the arm. There was a cocky look to the gaudy yellow emblem that sat brazenly on his left chest. Autistic canary lines, ran havoc and snarled within the confined space of the black needled box. A thin, chain of melded gold, clung possesive and serpentine along his stout neck. His hair was messy and forced to stand at different angles- thick clumps of frozen mud thrusting in diifferent directions.  His eyes played a tennis match, with every person who creaked the door open- seeking,sneaking, appraising, appreciating, bullshitting, seeking again. From afar, he was the average 20 year old, with the average dreams , the average hormonal pulses and average habit of sitting in a coffee shop of purple blushes and plush browns- a porcelain cup of steaming java, sitting happy in front of him. 

She came into the cafe, her hands clutching bags of pink and yellow, her scarlet nails clashing horribly against the neon plastics. A teenage smile of confidence danced on her lips. She was light toned, a pale river of pink gurgled pleasantly along the plump apple of her cheeks. But the sun made an ugly brew of frozen sweat and grime and slapped it on her face so that it now looked dull and dirty brown. The kajal was smudged, her eyes were tired. Tired but happy.Long limpid tired strands stuck like glue on her forehead, a little drizzle of dandruff beaded her scrunched up bun. 

She walked up to him and playfully knocked on his skull, and placed the bags lovingly onto the chair next to him. "Whatsup dude?" , she drawled lazily, pulling the chair put with an exaggerative sigh. "Hows the chick flick going?", she winked. There was a life to her voice, a frizzy,effervescent feel to it. Like an exultant chord that was struck hours back, but still hovered delightfully in the air, permeating and pervading. He looked up, mock exasperation plucking his eyebrows to an admonishing arch. " So much shopping?! Are you on a Dad looting spree? ". " Dude!Look what I got and then do that scream! "- she picked up one of the  pink polythene  and thrust them under his nose. Squished inside was something tiny and yellow, smelling new- the efficient smell of efficient manufacturing. He put a hand in, and gingerly picked the fabric out.

"This?What is this!" His face screwed up in visible agony as he stared at the pair of yellow shorts. 

"Hot pants, dude, hot pants. Dont you think, ill totally look so hot in them"?

He stared at her. His little sister. 16 and growing. Slightly more taller, the arms of her tee shirt getting smaller. A visible curve of womanhood against her top. The lingerie hanging dry in the bathroom had become daintier.From soft toys, she had graduated to silent fits of giggles while reading late night messages. A defiant look at him when he would question her about it, from the adjoining bed. From  g lugging strawberry milkshakes in patterned plastic cups, she had taken to munching a wad of gum, as she would softly enter the house. And wink at him, and whisper about the fruity, cold bottle of crane-berry breezer, she had just downed. The hair styles were more elaborate, the visits to the parlor were longer. Her ear lobes were a blur of metal and color, so much for the simple gold loops she once wore. Multicolored vials of liquid lay strewn on the dresser, and every day, there seemed to be a new pileup of skin lightening lotions, anti-tanning creams, balmy moisturizers. Every morning, before she dashed off to school, she would smooth every part of visible skin with dollops and scoops of the creams,leaving behind a spicy, tangerine , fruity smell  floating in the room like a dazed, confounded poltergeist. Cutouts of well oiled, brawny men were pasted in random order over her bed. The school skirt was hitched a little higher, the folds dancing wickedly around her waxed thighs, the distressed skin still a little red and sore. The Enid Blytons had gathered dust, sitting balefully on the table. The new, jazzy Sidney Sheldon's with the earnest dog-eared pages lay under her pillow now. Her walk was more winsome now, her talks included guys, and her facebook wall has postings of lil black hearts from equally enthusiastic teenage friends. 

How did this happen? He was supposed to be the brother! The one who she fought with! The one who dint give a damn to how his sister live d her life, to how she dressed! The one who dominated her. The insouciant brother. The one who carelessly sprawled himself on the sofa and watched the football matches. The one, who would enter dimly lit cheap bars and drag on the stick, watching its tiny golden lava, burn down the paper. The back slapping with friends, the new experiments. The weed, taken in slowly, the heavy perfume, the drugged somnolence. The promise at the back of his mind, the promise that he would never smoke. The promise,faded and dull and deliberately forgotten. The college bunks, the proxies. The guy who made sure people did not attend classes, heralding the shyly rebellious toppers, and the eager bunkers, out of the dull classroom. The guy who would sneak in a fag inside the bathroom, and watch the wily curls of smoke dance sensuously in front of him. And of course the girls. The girls and the girl friends and the commitment phobias.

Girls, those girls. The girl of seven years. The one who described him a future so vivid, that it caged him, scared him. The one who drew a boundary to his dreams. The one he left, for he needed to explore and experiment and experience. The one he left, for she scared him. Scared him, by the names of the kid she had already decided, the house with its garlands of redolent tuber vines, that they were going to live in. Their 25th marriage anniversary, the people whom they were going to invite to witness, their silver years of marriage. The surety of the life she gave him terrified him. He knew, that there would be a breakfast of cold cereal every morning at 7am. But what if he wanted eggs, sunny side up? Then what? Would the definite lines that held them together, die away? He ran away from her.

The blur of girls and their whims and their bodies and the wooings after that. The same pattern of asking for the number, sweet nothings to whisper, sweeter ways to nibble. hose dates, how he smirked at their flushed faces and appreciated the gentle swell of their bosom. The girls he took in, had a good time with, and he walked away from, for their predictable natures bored  him.