I had a problem of constructional apraxia.
I celebrated my tenth birthday and two months passed.
It was in the same month
when my parents breathed their last.
My ill brother and I were left alone.
While he started earning and saving pennies,
we were able to keep the wolf from the door
at the cost of his health and getting scratched knees.
My brother used to teach me how to make a straight line,
but the lines I drew had many curves
as for me, a straight line was symbolic of an easy life,
while curves meant a life with challenges and getting what one deserves.
“Draw a straight line!” my brother used to shout.
“I hate straight lines,” I cried.
Tight hugs he then gave me
and eventually, together we smiled.
At the pharmacy, not having enough money,
my brother used to buy medicines not for him but only for me.
But I was very young and innocent to realize
what harm to himself invited he.
Once again, for my brother, I tried to draw a straight line.
Looking at it, I smiled as I almost succeeded
and thought that it was too perfect.
Then, I waited for my brother to come back home so that he could also see it.
That evening, my neighbor took me to the hospital.
I couldn’t understand what was happening.
My brother was lying on a hospital bed
connected to a cardiac monitor machine with some string.
And then I realized that the line I drew
was not really that perfect,
as on the cardiac monitor machine lying in front of me,
I saw a straight line even more perfect.
By-
Mansha Gupta
B.A. (Hons.) Psychology
1st year
[Edited by Tushita Choudhary and Shreya Jathavedan
Art curated by Naina Sarma ]
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