Arthur

I was on a crowded train during rush hour when I saw him again after so many years. He was seated at a street corner close to the tracks begging for food. His thin hands outstretched before him and upturned towards the sky. His clothes old and worn, his face cracked and blackened by the hot August sun. An old bowl was in front of him. I wondered how much money he had made that day. He looked up and his eyes met mine. The forlorn look on his face changed to one of contemplation. I quickly turned my face away lest the look on his face change to recognition.

“Arthur” I whispered, as my mind flew back to days long past. Back to days when we ran barefooted to school. When we laughed and played, and rolled in the mud. Back to the days when we fought and hit each other and then made up after being miserable for days. Back to the days when he called and I answered, when I called and he answered, and when he called and I didn’t answer.

I loved Arthur as much as I hated him. He was my first friend, and in many ways, my best friend. But I was proud, and petty, and my selfishness prevented me from being the kind of person I should have been. Arthur you see, was my competition. He was always ahead of me no matter how hard I tried. It’s not that I was not good, he was just better.

Jealously took the place he held in my heart. I held it close, I held it dear, and soon I pushed him away. Arthur tried to draw me to him, but my envy wouldn’t allow me to take his outstretched hand. Best friends became acquaintances and then strangers. After we graduated from high school, I moved away.

He wrote, but I never wrote back. Eventually, he stopped.

When I first heard rumors of the disease, I rejoiced. That was the extent of my jealousy. I rejoiced because I could finally outshine him. Well wishers raised money to cater for his medical bills but I never sent any. Friends visited him in hospital, but I never showed my face. His disease left him with gnarled limbs. He lost his job, and his family couldn’t do much to assist him since they were poor.

That was the last I heard of Arthur. Not until I saw him seated at the street corner close to the tracks begging for food. His thin hands outstretched before him and upturned towards the sky. His clothes old and worn, his face cracked and blackened by the hot August sun. An old bowl was in front of him.