The First KissA Story by Aehr
The sixth year of my existence is a haze of sunshine, orange flavoured ice lollies and shreds and pieces of memories of my mother and I reading Enid Blyton in the evenings. I was the older and slightly more ill-tempered one of the two daughters my parents had given birth to. Aarti, my younger sister, was three years old back then, with a head of thick wavy hair, unnaturally long for most children her age. She was as odd as three year olds are, struggling to string her words into meaningful sentences, trying to explain that she did not, in fact, want anyone to tie her hair, and that the dog deserved a beating for making a chew toy of her now broken, bent and saliva-bathed barbie doll. She was undergoing the tedious procedure of understanding the world of humans and its working.
Not to brag, but I was the more imaginative one, coming up with games, finding fairies in the dust that flew in from the window and shone as it caught sunshine and shimmered momentarily. While my sister messily ate bananas, squashing the forsaken fruit till it became nothing but sticky mush around her mouth and on her cheeks, I put colourful clothes pegs in her hair and glared at her when she made noises of refusal, just because I could. I was the older one. I expected to be listened to and complied with. Ah, but before I knew it, she became my mirror. She would copy me all the time. If I were to lie on my stomach and watch television with my cupped hands holding up my face, she would do the same. She would drink a glass of water when I would, even though our hydrating needs couldn’t possibly be time-coordinated. It annoyed me, sometimes. A little is enough to flatter, but imitation can soon end up looking like a form of mockery, and if not that, it can still remain capable of driving you crazy. Well, one of those days I can still distinctly remember, even today. It is a day every girl remembers. It was the day one of the greatest mysteries in the mind of a six year old finally unraveled itself - the mystery of kisses. The touching of lips, the giddy happiness of every sparkly dress-wearing Disney princess on giving or receiving one of those. What was so magical about a kiss? Wasn't it kind of gross? Why would you want to be in such close physical contact with another human? And worst of all, a boy. Ew. The first time I had seen the prince kiss Snow White, I had decided right there and then not to associate myself with that kind of behaviour. The sheer, raw power of determination and my strong dislike for the masculine gender had come together and it was done - these lips would only kiss my parents goodnight after every long day, after which I would drown into slumber, and, the next morning, begin another day of not kissing boys. How determined I was-naive, and merrily unaware of the fact that I was soon going to break this promise that I had made to myself. I did not know that there would be a certain Neil Joshi with voluminous tousled hair and big round eyes who would steal a kiss from me. The Joshis were new in the building, a north Indian family in a South Indian city, just like mine, much much to the delight of my mother. Neil was the youngest of two sons and my age, the older one being Rohan, a frequently disturbed teenager when it came to matters of the heart. Rohan's problem, I now realize as a sixteen year old, was that he was too nice. He was too nice to the girl he liked, and she, being a typical girl, totally and completely friendzoned him. That's what happens. Guys treat girls nicely, and then get friendzoned. Why? I do not know. It just happens to be one of the laws of the universe. No one can help it. That, of course, leads me to wonder-did the friendzone exist among cavemen and cavewomen too? Well, there's no way of knowing. Anyway, the kiss came about one fateful day of June. The sun was not on our heads like it got in the afternoon, and the kids were outside, in the garden, on the swings. The older children were on the terrace, laughing at things that didn't make sense to us. I remember staring up at them from the field and wondering what was so goddamn funny all the time. Neil and I were playmates, basically because we were forced to spend so much time with each other, because our mothers did. At first, he was shy. Then he started playing around with my dog, and we became friends. I think our first ever conversation went something like this. Neil: I like this dog. Me: He's mine. Neil: But I like him. Me: you can play with him, but he's mine. And play with the dog he did. Of course, sometimes it was the dog we were chasing, other times it was my sister, who crawled on all fours, imitating the dog, just happy to be part of the group. We had our games, we laughed our little childish laughs. Of course, I had no clue that he was falling in love with me. So that June evening, at around 5:00 pm, after I had woken up from my nap, I went out to play with the other children. I remember what I was wearing - a blue tshirt with yellow flowers and a white skirt. My wild curly hair was neatly combed and braided. I ran to the swings and immediately scoured the area for Neil. And there he was, in the sandpit, digging a hole. He really enjoyed digging holes, while I enjoyed filling them back in. That little fact now makes me think that maybe we were soulmates. We balanced each other out. So I went to him, and I said, "Neil, what do you want to play?" "I want to finish digging this hole," he replied, looking at me. "When will you finish?" I asked, annoyed. "I don't know. I'll finish when its done." he said. (Surprisingly) Satisfied with that answer, I sat down beside him, and traced little patterns in the sand, waiting for him to finish digging his hole. Soon, I began to dig my own hole, but then filled it up again. He was still not done with his. "I'm going to the swing," I said ultimately, bored. "Its almost done." He said. "But I'm going." I said, turning away. Can you really blame me? Sand gets boring after a while. "No. Wait." he said. And that's when it happened. Out of nowhere, his lips pecked mine, briefly, and then they were gone. It felt like the wing of a butterfly had brushed my lips mid-flight. The intention of the action was to keep me from leaving, and that intention had been fulfilled. Right in the middle of a crowded playground, I had just received my first kiss. I stared at him, stunned. My cheeks felt hot, and I did not know what to do. I got up, immensely angry, while he didn't seem to think too much of whatever had happened. He just looked at me for a moment, and then went back to digging his hole. I, on the other hand, ran home, embarrassed, closed the door behind me and hid under my blanket for the next hour. Later, it was brought to my notice that only minutes after I had left him, he was playing with Megha, another girl in the building. What a damn playboy! You kiss a girl and then chat up another. Who did he think he was? The next couple of days, I did not play with him. In fact, I did not play at all. I stayed home after my nap, and watched Tom & Jerry. It was hard not to think about the kiss. He had stolen my peace of mind. He had stolen the promise I had made to myself. But the third day, I decided to be brave. I did go out to play. And he was there, swinging with Megha. I decided to join them. Soon Megha got bored and left. Megha got bored of things very easily. She was the kind of girl to scream for a pet and on getting one, completely lose interest in precisely seventeen hours. Neil didn't mention the kiss. In fact, he seemed completely normal about the whole situation, while I was losing sleep over it. We stayed on the swings for a while, not talking. The sun was a ball of faintly glowing amber in a gradually graying sky. Children began to leave. And then, my kisser spoke, "I am hungry." That three worded tetrasyllabic response told me that the depth of his feelings was negligible to zero to non-existent, and the kiss was nothing but an act of spontaneity. Unorganized, misleading spontaneity, yes. But nothing but spontaneity. "So am I," I said truthfully, the worry leaving my mind. And for a few moments more, we stayed on the swings, looking at the empty field before us. The sandpit still had a depression from the last hole Neil had dug. The dirty slippers on our feet would need to be washed when we got home. Our mothers would give us snacks to munch on. Our fathers would hug us when they got back home. And the kiss on that sandpit would remain nothing but a moment of the infinite others that make up our lives, something frozen in time, until its unfrozen and moved on from. I didn't know that then. I know that now. Every moment will become the past in the next moment. So does it really matter? Does anything really matter as much as we think it does? Neil never kissed me again, and I never kissed him. But sometimes, when I look at that old, broken sandpit, I see two six year olds sharing a butterfly kiss. And it warms my heart and reminds me, once again, of the haze of sunshine, ice lollies and Enid Blyton that my childhood was. © 2015 Aehr
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7 Reviews  Last Updated on December 21, 2015 Tags: Two six-year olds. A promise. On Author
AehrAspiring for fearlessnessAboutTrying to keep my words alive. Find me on Instagram: aehr_x more..Writing
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