Two Versions
They were packing their mother’s flat when they discovered that they remembered the same summer differently.
“The mango tree,” said Rhea, “is where you fell.”
“I never fell. You pushed me.”
“I did not push you. You were showing off.”
“I was showing you how to climb.”
They stood among the boxes, each holding half of the same blue plate. In Rhea’s version their father had caught Kabir. In Kabir’s version it was the neighbour. In both there was a tree, a scraped knee, and a long evening of mango eaten on the steps with salt and chilli, which was apparently the only fact on which the entire family could agree.
“We could ask Amma,” Rhea said.
“We could.”
Neither moved. Kabir thought of how his teacher had once explained the stars: a few bright points, joined by whoever happens to be looking. His line and hers passed through the same lights and drew different animals.
“Keep the plate,” Rhea said. “I’ll keep the story. Yours.”
“No. Tell me yours again. Slowly. From the tree.”
So she did, and he listened, and the afternoon went on telling itself in two voices.
Invented. No real person is described, and the story is not a portrait of anyone born under this sign.