Why We Never Buy a Green Tooth-brush?

 It all began when my wife, Priya, decided to revolutionize our dental lives. She brought home a set of four sparkling new toothbrushes—each with its own identity. A red one, a white one, a blue one, and the most remarkable of them all: a vibrant green brush that almost glowed with pride.

“This way, no confusion,” she declared. “Everyone gets their own brush!”

Sarthak, our 7-year-old speedster, instantly pounced on the red one. Red is his favourite world. Priya kept the elegant white. I, obviously, took the majestic green, which left blue for Shamika, our ever-observant daughter.

For the first few days, mornings were smooth. Sarthak and Shamika brushed up early and marched off to school. I, starting office a little later, would bask in the joy of my new green brush. There's something oddly satisfying about using a brand-new toothbrush. Sometimes I feel attached to this materialistic world.

But as days turned into weeks, and weeks into six whole months, something odd happened.

My green brush… aged. Badly. The bristles looked like they had been through a sandstorm. They were tired. So was I. I started dreaming of a fresh toothbrush. But in our household, ordering brushes is Priya's department—unofficially official.

One morning, Priya reviewed the dental lineup. “Why is the green one so worn out?” she asked.

That’s when I paused. The green brush was always oddly wet. Even when I was the first to reach it.

“Why is my brush always damp in the morning?” I mumbled, as a tiny bell rang in my head.

I did what any responsible adult would do in such a situation—I called an urgent family meeting.

“Papa…” Shamika yelled before I could even open the case. “That’s MY green brush!”

“What?! That’s mine! I’ve been using it for six months!” I said, shocked and slightly betrayed.

“Noooo!” she screamed in horror, her face twisted in ultimate disgust.

She made a dramatic fake vomiting sound, just for effect. We both stared at each other, horror-struck. Six months. Same brush. Two people.

“Well,” I tried to recover, “done is done.” No point digging into emotional cavities now.

Without a second thought, I walked up to the bin, saluted the poor green brush—who had unknowingly worked double shifts all this time—and chucked it.

Shamika was still glaring at me like I had just licked her ice cream.

“Why don’t you start using the blue one now?” I offered, trying to lighten the moment. “No one ever used it.”

“Errrhhh…” she grunted in peak teenage disgust, while I burst into uncontrollable laughter.

And thats how a green toothbrush united (and divided) a father and daughter. Moral of the story? Label your brushes. But since then, we have stopped using green tooth brushes.