My Little Brother

Sibling relationships outlast marriages, survive the death of parents, and resurface after quarrels that would sink any friendship. They flourish in a thousand incarnations of closeness and distance, warmth, loyalty and distrust. To the outside world we all grow old. But not to brothers and sisters. We know each other as we always were. We know each other's hearts. We share private family jokes. We remember family feuds and secrets, family griefs and joys. We live outside the touch of time.

I don’t remember my first memory of Rahul. Though I do remember being responsible for him since the day he was born. People tell me, I was in love with my kid brother since the day he was born and was protective of him since then. I still am madly & fiercely protective about him.

My oldest memories of him are when he as a newborn would sleep with his butt high up in the air, when they shaved off his curly locks, when we used to play with little insects we had named lady birds.

Of playing in Chennai, amma taking both of us to Bambino Kindergarten, when he would wait patiently to know if his sister had beaten everyone in class in dictation, when both of us were photographed as the best dressed kids by some newspaper photographer. When he once during a game, threw his toy gun at me and I got hurt. The times when we overturned chairs to become horses and dragged them around the house, screeching to a halt only when our landlord from downstairs came running up hurling abuses. And how amma tied the chairs to the windowsill and how we despite that sat and pretended that we were trotting on our ponies.

I remember those days when Amma walked Rahul and me to the bus stop in Kollam. And then just when he realised the van was fast approaching, he would burst into tears and sob so hard, amma wouldn’t have the heart to let him go. Then with me pulling from inside and amma pushing from outside Rahul would hang onto the van. Finally amma would succeed in pushing him in, wherein she would catch an auto and follow us to school. Or else she would pull him out with helplessness as he smiled and hugged her as if it was only in her arms that he would feel safe ever.

Then there were the sessions where he would run out of Wendy Miss’ class. And I would follow him around and catch him and deposit him there and head to my own, a tad late. Or the times amma patiently sat outside his classroom so that each time he looked out he would see her and be comforted. Then those days when the principal finally not able to hit upon a solution, decided to coach him herself and he would pompously sit in one of her chairs and she took private lessons and I went down in every break to feed him and look on him. And how he named me “kutti amma” because I took care of him while amma was not around.

So many places and phases we share. So many memories.

Wondrous moments. Treasured for life. Mightily forgotten by my absent-minded younger brother.

For the first time in our lives, we are in separate continents. And I miss him sorely.

I sought my soul, but my soul I could not see. I sought my God, but my God eluded me. I sought my brother and I found all three.