When the twins were born, their parents were over the moon. Since the day they met at an anti-globalization protest, they had always wanted to have kids, mainly to show the world that upbringing was the answer to the nature versus nurture dilemma, and that being as they were communists, anarchists, trade unionists, and many other things ending in -ists, their kids would be the living example of a new humanity, in harmony with nature, solidarity and every new age manifest.
They named the boy Siddhartha, the Buda, and the girl Gaya, Mother Earth. They moved to the third floor of a squat house and spent as much quality time as possible with them. They went to the park, to demonstrations, to alternative music concerts and to second-hand shops.
But as time went by, and the moment for the significant mutation approached – namely, adolescence – the parents started to watch with atheist horror how their twins, their model for an alternative way of life, began a terrifying transformation. The day the kids’ friends knocked on the door and asked for Rupert and Beatrice, the poor parents’ dreadlocks stood up in the end. As they were trying to convince the unexpected visitors that they were at the wrong house, Siddhartha abruptly interrupted them.
‛Dad, please, do not freak my friends out, as if your looks weren’t embarrassing enough!’
‛Siddy, my boy, who the hell are Rupert and Beatrice?’
‛Stop calling me Siddy, people are going to think I have some illness, so ghastly! If you hadn’t given me such a ridiculous name, you and your hippie nonsense. I have decided to go by Rupert, and my dear sister has chosen Beatrice, because we are sensible people who deserve sensible names.’
The poor father was trying to catch his breath when another blow interfered with his energy flow: a tiny, very green crocodile embroidered on Siddy’s polo shirt. The curse of consumer society had arrived in their home, so full of rebellion and insubordination.
And Gaya, sweet Gaya, who used to dance barefoot to the beat of the drums, she appeared wearing the dreaded crocodile on her dress. The shock was so great that he needed a double dose of weed, ginger and pepper in his tea.
‛What have we done wrong?’ they wondered once and again. ‛Why does the universe want to punish us?’ The flowers in their hair started drooping, and neither the sounds of Ravi Shankar’s sitar nor the howl of Alaska wolves could relieve their sorrow.
Convinced that only shock therapy would make his kids regain their senses and their libertarian spirit, their dad decided to look for a forthright remedy. A significant problem required imaginative solutions and drastic decisions.
‛No way, over my mortal body and my immortal soul!’ Mum screamed.
‛There is no other solution, it is the only way they will recover their sanity; otherwise, we risk worse. They may join the Young Conservatives, and I swear, I would rather kill them with my own bare hands!’
‛How can that be a solution? How can we do that to our own kids?’ Mum mourned through tears.
‛Cry as much as you want, this is all your fault, you have spoiled them. Or do you think I didn’t know Gaya has a Barbie doll hidden under the mattress?’
‛Your bloody mother bought her the doll, by the way, it was you who saw Siddi making a gun with pegs, and did you stop him? This is a tragedy, a tragedy!’
With deep sorrow, a week after the incident, with the strength provided by a three-hour session of Arapahoe indigenous ceremonial songs and another tea with you-know-what, they took Siddhartha-Rupert and Gaya-Beatrice to the airport.
Fourteen hours in an economy flight later, Rupert and Beatrice found themselves, their crocodiles, their designer sunglasses and their luxury shoes completely stupefied, terrified of the future ahead.
All their worldly possessions were taken from them; they were only allowed a pair of black organic cotton trousers and an unbranded grey shirt. Instead of their fancy shoes, they were given black canvas trainers, their issues of Cosmopolitan and Hello replaced by a small red book with the photo of their new guru on the cover. No, it wasn’t Winston Churchill. Their spiritual leader was now Mao Tse-Tung.
They spent the following months working eighteen hour shifts, sleeping in a cubicle like bees in a hive, making Louis Futton handbags, Armandi glasses, Canal dresses and all sorts of garments and accessories that would flood shopping centres in Europe, North America and the Middle East – it is well known that other parts of the world have to make do with the knockoffs.
In the meantime, their poor parents were camping in front of Parliament, chanting mantras, summoning the spirits of their ancestors, dancing under the full moon, wishing Communist Paradise would cure their kids and show them the dark side of a society willing to consume them.
Chinese whispers have it that Siddhartha-Rupert was promoted from his factory worker position, and a few years later, he was spotted wearing an Armandi suit, welcoming a foreign delegation that visited Beijing to sign an international trade agreement - the type of deal that makes the rich richer, the poor poorer, and the commerce more commerce.
In his role as Trade Attaché, he signed contracts worth millions of dollars to ensure that Chinese workers could continue working 18-hour shifts and multinational companies could increase their profits. Mao was probably turning in his grave.
Gaya-Beatrice remembered an old saying: she who leans against a good tree will be sheltered by a good shadow. Instead of leaning against her parents’ tiny bush, she leaned against the tree of money, a tree her brother had planted, nourished and helped grow. She became his personal assistant and the “personal assistant” of various foreign businessmen.
As expected, their parents’ civil partnership – it is well known that marriage is reactionary and repressive – could not survive the decision they had made. Little did they know that what keeps a couple together is not the kids, but a forty-year mortgage.
Word on the street is that the mother spent some years from flea market to flea market, until the day she felt so low she went to see her GP, who revealed a wonderful world full of Prozac and Xanax. She remained forever trapped in the loving arms of prescription drugs, and of an insurance broker who bought her a flat - this time with warm water, electricity and a convenient mortgage payment plan.
And you may be wondering what happened to the poor father… legend goes that his spirit haunts the park opposite Parliament every time a group of protesters camps, be it to demand a free Tibet or the declaration of a new saint. Even spirits can get it wrong every now and then.
Sometimes, when the owners are not watching, he appears out of thin air in pound shops, looking amongst the golden cats and plastic kitchen utensils made in China for a signal of Siddhartha and Gaya’s return to the fold.
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