She
was an annoyed teen; his constant smile had more milk teeth than not.
Accompanied by a harried mother and a drowsy father, they were your typical
Dubai airport transit family.
They are standing at the edge of two long,
automated walkways, one in either direction. He challenges her to a duel: he’ll
race her to the end and will do it on the disadvantaged walkway.
It’s evident to all she doesn’t want to do
it. Her annoying brother, does he ever sleep? Why can’t he pester someone else?
Why is /she/ his affectionately appointed best friend? Ugh, at the least, she
can walk her way to victory. But she’ll have to walk back. Well, he’ll have to
walk back too; that gave her some comfort. Bragging rights could be fun.
3. 2. 1. And they are off. Well, he is off;
she casually strolls into the lead. He goes as fast as he can but a third into
the race and he’s definitely losing. She allows herself a rare smirk; looking
at how hard her brother is trying, her victory may be sweet after all.
From the sidelines, I was clearly rooting
for the little boy with his heart on his sleeve. Run, Forest, Run! But there’s
no way he can win, can he? Even if he has another gear, it’d be awfully close.
What would I do? Personally, I’m far too lazy to challenge people to races. But
if I did? Would a psych out work best? A distraction? There seemed to be no
edge to gain, no way to win.
And then the boy just stopped. With palms
and chin on the moving, ‘disadvantaged’ railing, he watched his departing
sister with the best poker face I’ve ever seen. No smile, no laugh, no
resignation, nothing; he just watched. Unsurprisingly, she was not as good at
the poker face; it was a miracle the smoke detectors weren’t blaring.
Unwittingly, she had forced herself into one of the most frustrating to and fro
‘strolls’ of her life.
The entire duel
hinged on his unwavering thirst to engage and beat his sister; and like a skilled
waiter pulls away the tablecloth, he had stripped this (his!) activity of his
eagerness. He had flat out given up and quietly floated away towards his awaiting mother. She,
on the other hand, had the kind of look on her face that was so priceless I’ll
carry with me to my grave.
My ICSE/ISC upbringing requires every story
to have a moral, a message; heavens forbid we share a story simply for the
story. So I suppose the little boy’s message is that we aren’t always playing
the game we think we are and that the best way to win some games is to not play
at all (OR, pretend to and then sucker punch the older sibling with a big, jam
bun!).
