Why so serious?

Not only am I not an child, I was not the first born. A circumstance that makes for both a (often times) easy and (mostly) troubled coming of age under an older sibling – especially since my older sibling had a penchant to mete out grossities (it should be a word!) the likes of which most people (other than possibly other first borns) could never imagine.

This is not to say that I was tormented, far from it, most times I probably did not have to pay for “our” crimes. As a relative rule across all families, irrespective of national or socio-cultural backgrounds, the prime directive was that the older sibling “was supposed to know better” than to lead the “less experienced, trusting younger sibling who only follows an example.” (If this write-up was a film, now would be the perfect frame to dissolve into a close-up of innocent fluttering eyes... sigh.)

Anyway my brother and I had a fairly fun time growing up, apart from the times (which were quite frequent when we were younger) when he was the dominating fiend of Dickensian lore – the sinister Fagin shadow over my poor naïve Oliver Twist rendition (dissolve to close-up of my innocent fluttering eyes).

We were like the musketeers, always together as we were growing up, with what I was possibly hoodwinked to believe was a “all for one, one for all” mantra. Which really didn't work because even when I supposedly took the “heat,” the prime directive took precedence... at least that is how I will always remember it.

Except for one instance in particular.

The crime for which my very life was threatened by my mother (who incidentally swore she would beat me to my death; I was witness to so much high drama from a tender age) has been long forgotten to the point that it might not have even registered in the first place during all that chaos and cacophony.

Truth be told that I had no recollection of this incident, but the 'event' was, on occasion, brought up with joviality thanks to the yellow-bellied reproach of my brother – the head musketeer! My mother remembers with great mischief that my brother requested her to wait to mete out her corporal punishment upon innocent me (close-up of... you get the picture) until he had left the room!

That story was a favourite of my mother's (she saw it as proof as my brother's devotion to me... huh?). Over the years that story also served as the root of an epiphany and the birth of a Talatism truth. Humour saves lives, and, more importantly, deflects the seriousness of the moment.

I'd imagine that my mother's harden resolve softened somewhat at my brother's request – clearly he had indicated by his action (no matter how cowardly I deemed it) that while he fully believed that my mum could accomplish what she has set out to do, he made it abundantly clear that he did not want to be a witness to the snuffing of a fragile flame. That softening of the resolve may be reason why I do not remember the incident – I am almost sure that an event such as a “beating to death” would be quite vividly etched into my psyche had it actually happened.

So there you have it. Humour puts most things into perspective – no thing (sic) is important or serious enough in life not to be able to see a lighter side. As I had discovered quite early that you shouldn't sweat the small stuff and that given the right perspective everything is small stuff. I suddenly realised that humour was the tool that helped put everything in the “right perspective.” Everything is worth a chuckle, lest we take things too seriously.

As for the memories of my formative years under the influence my domineering older sibling... we really did become like the musketeers and I have no doubt that it is “all for one and one for all” this time around.