Hands Up! — Flash Fiction Story

Hands Up! That’s all I had to say.

My brother Manu made me practice it a hundred times. Or was it a thousand times? I can’t count. What do I know? Manu says I’m a simpleton. Papa called me an idiot. I remember his last words just before he died.

Manu, take care of your brother. This world is no place for idiots.

Papa then patted my cheek, it felt like a slap, and closed his eyes forever.

The bank was far from our home. How did I know? I could whistle the tune of Mehbooba many times before we got there. Manu and me, every morning, on his scooter. He said we had to practice hard, or we would fail.

I didn’t want to fail.

Then one day, Manu said it was time. I wanted to wear my orange shirt, but he said we could only wear black to a robbery. Like we wore white when papa died. I wasn’t happy. But I had to listen to Manu. Papa said so before he died.

I wore new shoes. They were black too. I sat behind Manu with the bag on my shoulders. My throat was dry. How would I say, ‘Hands up?’ We stopped for some juice. Manu looked angry. I looked the other way.

We walked into the bank. Manu took the bag from me. I sat down next to an old man.

Namaste Uncle.

Papa always said to respect our elders.

Manu walked to the counter. He smiled and talked to the woman. She gave him money and then Manu walked out. I waited and waited, but he didn’t come back. The bank people finally told me to leave.

Where was Manu? Where was my home? I cried like I did when Papa died.

I never even got to say, ‘Hands up!’

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