The Lesser Evil

“Why do I still like my brother?” he was saying. “Love him? Respect him? Admire him?”

“I should hate him because he is so successful and I am not. But I don’t.”

“I should hate him because he was almost always first in class. I am almost always not. But I don’t.”

“I should hate him because he lifted the bar so high that it made it impossible for me to emulate him.”

“He left me such big shoes to fill that they ended up belittling me. I should hate him for doing that. But I don’t.”

“I am an ordinary boy. I am content being ordinary. But I have the same parents he had, the same neighbours he had, the same teachers he had."

"Therein lies the problem. None of them can forget him or stop talking about him.”

“Not that it is his fault he is so lovable. So hardworking. Industrious. Diligent. Thorough. Understanding. Caring. Dependable. Good-looking. Intelligent. Polite.”

“I am none of these things. Well, perhaps I am good looking, intelligent and polite; but that is where our similarities end.”

“I am so many other things. I am creative. Passionate. Loyal. Strong. Shredded. But nobody seems to notice these traits.”

“I used to care. I used to even resent these comparisons a lot. Not anymore. Well, perhaps I still do, but maybe because I have grown up with them for so long now, these comparisons really don’t matter anymore. Well, maybe they still do, but I love my brother.”

“Despite all his faults like being so good and universally liked, I love him because he cares about me. Really, he does.”

“He taught me things. Like how to safely light a matchstick. It was one of my biggest fears. I was always afraid that I would burn myself. The moment a stick flared, I’d throw it down. I almost burned down our home once because of that. But he was always so patient.”

“I have fond memories of him lifting me in his arms when I was little. I used to be happy with him then. We played together, bathed together."

"He fought my fights. Protected me. Understood me. Something my parents, neighbours, or teachers never did.”

“My father just wanted to live vicariously through me. As if one life hadn't been enough for him. He never saw me in me. He saw only himself, and possibilities of what he could be through me, this time.”

“Successful. Glorious. Wealthy. None of which he was in his life himself. His ambition destroyed my contentment. I hate him.”

“My mother was a tiger mom. She wanted me to study. Always study. Only study. Like life is nothing but a table, lamp, books and stationery.”

“Sorry ma, but I have only one life and too many interests to be tied down to a table, lamp, books and stationery forever.”

“But what did she care? Now, neither do I. I don’t care about what she cares about anymore. I hate her.”

“My neighbours keep reminding me of how wonderful my brother is, how he is travelling the world, serving the poor and needy voluntarily, while doing exceptionally well at his medical degree. They can’t wait for him to be a doctor.”

“What do they really care about him or about what he does? They just want the privilege of saying they knew him. Something finally memorable in their otherwise unmemorable lives.”

“The hypocrites! I hate them too.”

“My teachers just can’t seem to understand how two children can come from the same parents and be so completely different.”

“They keep talking about how I should be like my brother, working hard and getting big scholarships like the $50,000 Auckland University scholarship he's received, along with so many other little ones.”

“All they do with their incessant preaching is remind me that I am not my brother. When he laps up almost all the trophies on offer, how bad does he make others feel.”

“Being perfect is a folly, it belittles others. I am not greedy like him. I give others a chance to shine.”

“Perhaps he can’t help it. Perhaps there is evil in him too, driving him to perfection, because he wants to show us all up. But I will fight the good fight and never give up. I will be spectacularly ordinary, unlike him – the spectacularly extraordinary. I will never be like him!”

He looked up at her finally, a gleam in his eye. She stared at him silently for some time. It was supposed to have been his creative writing piece on a New Zealander he admired. He had obviously chosen to write about his brother.

But what a twisted lot of feelings these were. She was in shock, almost from his first word. So negative, so envious. Nothing like love, admiration or respect. Then she understood.

‘Envy is the highest adulation,’ she thought. ‘The sincerest. Love and hate are really just two sides of the same coin. So, he does look up to him. And he did capture my attention. Creative indeed!’

She relaxed and kissed him on his forehead.

“Brilliant!” she said at last. “Submit it.”

But as she turned to leave his room, doubt claimed her again.

‘Mike is a perfect package,’ she thought, ‘but does Smith truly believe all the rest of it? We're not like that, are we?’

‘No, it is just creative writing,’ she tried dismissing her misgivings. ‘Some envy is natural. It is the lesser evil. Isn't that why he chose that title?’

‘Or is he talking about the path he’s chosen for himself? To be ordinary, and unlike his brother. Is that the lesser evil?'

'But what if he's really consumed by envy? Is he really talking about his brother being the lesser evil? Or worse, himself as being the lesser evil?'

She felt tormented, but she didn't really want to find out. She hurried out of his room. It was better to remain silent and be thought a fool, than to speak up and remove all doubt.

Hope Springs Eternal

“What are you thinking?” Sunny asked, as he snuggled in with Ben in his younger son’s bed. Ben had been lying in his bed staring at the ceiling.

“About a creative writing piece I’ve written up for my next assessment,” answered Ben.

“It is set in war-torn Afghanistan of 1980s and talks about why people are forced to abandon their homelands and seek refuge elsewhere in the hope of surviving and re-establishing their lives.”

“I think I have written it well enough to capture the power of hope when one is surrounded by tragedy. Wanna read it?”

Sunny nodded. Ben got up and fetched his story.

“Hot off the press,” he said as he handed it to his father.

Sunny smiled, sat up in the bed and began reading. His son had written:

The sun looked sadly down upon the city of Shar Shar and descended behind the mountain range with a heavy step. Dark ominous shadows slowly crept up on the city.

A tired breeze gathered softly what leaves were left on the almost barren trees and renounced them. A hot earthy smell rose from the sun-baked earth filling me with a lethargic yet contented drowsiness.

The chatter of birds and chirping of cicadas had mellowed, as they too were getting ready to settle down after a long day.

I took off my worn shoes and sodden rags which reeked of hard yakka and settled down on the barren crusted land, under the rusty mud-brick roof. My roof.

Night climbed up my walls stealthily as I lay on my bruised and abused back looking up into the heavens. A deep relaxing sleep overtook me.

I dreamt of peace. I dreamt of a happy place. I dreamt of a happy peaceful place where my family and I could relax and be free of fear.

My young children danced around joyously on the soft green fields with striking flowers of many colours and the sun beamed down upon them from the endless clear horizon.

It was simple, yet so beautiful. It was a life ironically, that I could only dream of. Afghanistan was being torn apart by war.

My daughter was running up a steep gravelly slope playing with her brother. Her foot slipped and she fell. Her shriek startled me, shattering my dream.

I awoke with a start. My eyes flicked open, and I looked about me incomprehensibly. I was where I had slept last night, but it all looked different now.

What had happened to my home? It was in tatters. The roof was gone, the walls blown apart.

A shrieking missile tore down towards me from the sky. I stared at it in paralysed dismay. It landed a short distance away, tearing up the countryside. The impact of its shock-wave knocked me senseless.

As I emerged from my stupor, I noticed flames consuming neighbouring huts voraciously. I stumbled up on my feet and wavered drunkenly.

There were large new depressions in the once-flat ground around me. I heard cries, but what they wanted failed to register on me. Some sounds were near, some far. Some were distinct, some unrecognisable.

I looked in sheer horror at my mother lying on the ground like a broken doll. Her arm was twisted unnaturally and a leg was missing. Another bloody decapitated body lay beside her. It was my brother.

It broke my heart to see her beating her breasts as she lolled beside him, shaking his body as if her feeble efforts to wake him up would bring him back to life.

A tear involuntarily rolled down my dirty blood crusted cheeks. I sat perfectly still as if I was frozen.

Time stood still. I tried frantically to comprehend what was happening. Nothing made sense to me. Why was this happening? Why had it happened to us?

I trembled and shuffled uneasily forward towards my grief-stricken mother. I picked her up in my skinny arms and made an attempt to turn. I almost dropped her.

Slowly, I clambered out of my broken house, swaying from side to side like a drunken man walking. My mother strained her neck back, staring at the motionless body on the ground.

Her good hand stretched towards it earnestly, not ready to let go and her mouth babbled unfathomable pleas. I felt confused, afraid and angry.

Why couldn’t she stay still? She was making it difficult for me to carry her. I was so exhausted, I was almost ready to drop her right there.

A blinding flash lit up the skies, and a thunderous clap followed it down. Another missile flew past, deafening my ears, snatching the earth out from beneath my shaky legs, as if it was just a sheet beneath my feet that someone had effortlessly pulled away from under me.

I dropped my load and sank on my knees beside her. I turned around terrified, in sudden remembrance of my children.

Dread filled my heart, yet fear surged in my limbs lifting my body in an involuntary spasm as I rose and stumbled back inside the rubble that had once been my home.

Then I saw them, huddled in a corner with my wife. They were safe. Tears of relief blinded me.

‘Allah hu Akbar!’ My arms lifted to the heavens in a silent thankful prayer. ‘God is great!’

As I began to regain my composure, I was surprised at my relief. My home was shattered, my neighbours burning, my brother was dead, and my mother was broken.

Yet I felt relief and had thanked my creator, because my children had been spared. They were safe. For the moment.

The human mind lingers not on tragedy. It chases after hope. Hope keeps him alive. It is the fountain head of the resilient human spirit.

I looked around. I didn’t know what to do, but I had to get them all out of here. We weren’t safe here. Not tonight, not ever now.

Fear cleared my mind. Suddenly I realised that as the eldest male, it was now my duty to protect those who had survived, and farewell those who had not.