Skip to main content

Of Banana Twins and Twin souls

“Look!” Omar’s voice reverberates in the kitchen and, most probably, is heard within the radius of thirty miles. 

He has experienced a eureka moment:Two bananas that sleep cozily inside a single peel.

“They are twins. They are born together,” I tell Omar, and then decide to create a visual experience. 

And if you are standing in a kitchen, there is no dearth of possibilities to stoke your creativity. My sculpting skills need just two black peppers for those deep dark eyes, a clove for a roman nose, and a bit of tomato peel for those rosy lips.

I am happy with my artwork. I feel so creative; and Omar is impressed.

“Aren’t they cute” I ask Omar.

“Yes, let’s keep them for ever,” he enthuses. 

“We can’t, they will rot. Everything in this world is transitory, even banana twins.”

After all these years, Omar has learned to ignore my meaningless digressions. And he focuses on what matters: twins

“Do I have a twin too?” he asks.

“No, you don’t. But in all probability you have a twin soul, but twin souls are, generally speaking, elusive. And sometimes…” here I stop as Omar starts giving me here-she-goes-again look.

 “And if I had a twin, would he have been exactly like me?”

“There’s a possibility that he or she would have looked like you, but no one in the world, not even a twin, can be exactly like you. The way you think, the way you feel, the way you experience things is unique. There is just one you.”

I don’t know how much of my eloquent sermon on individual uniqueness makes sense to Omar but this seems to make him happy.

He again looks at the banana twins and marvels at my ‘sculpture’, “You are such a good artist,” he declares and runs to invite everyone to have a look at my ‘masterpiece.’


I am an artist. This is my eureka moment. So happy.

Comments

  1. liked it. i thought that omar knew he did not have a twin. did anyone give you the idea of making the faces of them?
    regards zainab

    ReplyDelete
  2. Thanx Zainab, i am glad you liked it. Omar just wanted to be sure..nobody gave me the idea, this talent is innate :)

    ReplyDelete

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Napoleon and His Family in the Land of Lilliputians

As Napoleon the rooster traveled in the white Suzuki pickup van that was taking him to the Land of Lilliputians, he wondered. Yesterday, he along with the five hens who now cackled in the van were put in a separate basket.  They were sold to the Lilliputians. Napoleon looked at the five hens who were now under his guardianship. “What a diversified lot,” he thought. Somebody cackled in soft purring tones. He knew it must be Chandni , the eldest, the prettiest of the hens. She was snowy white with black dots.  Yes, there she was, sitting snugly near the window; oblivious to the world around her except the warm egg which she had just laid. Chandni was good at it: laying eggs day after day. “The ever maternal Chandni,” thought Napoleon and smiled indulgently at her. However, at times it irritated him that Chandi treated her eggs as if they merited a pride of performance award. “As if this is the only act of creativity in the world! But then this is a hen’s lot. W

How Selfishia got Rid of Her Feathery Moustache

Selfihsia the selfish hen was unhappy. And understandably so. After all, having a feathery moustache is not the same thing as having a new hairdo or a brand new dress from a well-known boutique. She couldn’t flaunt it.     It didn’t make her feel beautiful. It didn’t even make her feel like an ordinary hen with a few feathers missing. She felt feathery at the wrong places and this made her sad. One day when she was crying and looking at her reflection in the puddle of water near the grapefruit tree, Kayseria strutted toward her. “Selfhisha, I have clucked at the thought and have finally come up with a solution,” she said. All the hens had been thinking about Selfishia’s moustache for a while now. There had been five meetings under the grape fruit tree to get Selfishia out of her predicament. “Really!” Selfisha clucked loudly with hope. Hearing Selfishia’s loud cluck the others came trotting and gathered around her. When the cluck cluck of excitement settled

Martian in the Land of Lilliputians

“Are you really from Mars?” Saif asks me in his usual pitch of voice: loud. He apparently presumes I am sitting on the ceiling fan.  “Saif, I am near. I can even hear you whisper. Yes, I am from Mars.” Saif tries to lower his voice a notch. He doesn’t succeed.  “No, you are not. You make up stories, and you don’t understand the language of birds and animals. You have made up also those stories about Selfishia and Kayseria.” “Saif, first you doubt my Martian antecedents and then you challenge my communication abilities. Okay, if you don’t want to believe it, don’t,” I say with Martian nonchalance. “But why do you say so? Okay, now that the Curiosity Rover has landed on Mars will you go back?” “I don’t need any curiosity rover. I can go there on my own volition, just by snapping my fingers and closing my eyes.” Martian nonchalance helps to make your point. “I know this can’t be true. You are not from Mars,” Saif asserts his nine years old adult-hood.