My Best Friend - A Short Story

I sit at the counter of my father’s book shop staring vacantly at passersby. It’s only six, three more hours to go before we close for the day. Dad and bro have gone to meet the parents of the girl my bro is going to marry next month. It’s been such a long struggle finding another match for bro. His first marriage was a disaster, dissolving within 4 months. They wanted him to sell our bookshop and invest the proceeds in their garment business. Those loud fights and the humiliation he suffered all those months took a toll on his health. He is a gentle creature who hates a raised voice even. I seem to have got his traits, except that those have been multiplied manifold in my genes. I can’t stand arguments, I can’t stand loud music, and I can’t stand boisterous games. I seem to have carved myself right out of a friend circle because of my shyness. At 24 I have a grand total of two friends – my bro and Hercule Poirot. Ofcourse I like Miss Marple as well and Detective Inspector Dermont Craddock. But I like clever Monsieur Hercule Poirot the most.

Ever since I can remember I have loved the smell of books. In my teens I fell in love with Enid Blyton’s Frederick Algernon Trotteville and Georgina. I roamed the Secret Island with Jack, Peggy, Mike and Nora, later joined by Barney. The works of Agatha Christie caught my fancy when I was 16. I have read and re-read her books countless times. My room has so many of her treasures. My bro never disturbs me when I am reading, even when I keep the bedside light on till three in the morning.

My bro is very handsome. He always was. As a child I didn’t see much of him since he studied at a boarding school. But ever since mum was killed in the car crash all those years ago he came to live with us. He used to say that he hated having to live in such close proximity with so many boys. They would tease him unmercifully and pull his hair. His studies suffered and he got more marks at school since he came to live with us. Dad didn’t pay much attention to him. Dad was a changed man after mom died. In the mornings dad would make a bowl of porridge or corn-flakes for breakfast. My bro would eat from my bowl. Dad never objected. Sometimes bro would be naughty and spill some on the table but dad never seemed to mind. He seemed to be lost in his own world. I have seen him crying in front of mom’s pic for years after her death. I guess he is mourning still. He never smiles or laughs.

Me and my bro have always been very close. In fact it was he who found me a rare early edition of Murder of Roger Ackroyd. He put it on my table one night and I was thrilled when I woke up in the morning. I rushed into the bathroom to thank him. He was taking a shower humming to himself. He laughed and dragged me under with him. He would often give me baths and oil massages. I came out to him when we were having a bath one day. “Bhaiyya!”, I said, “I am a homo.” He did not blink an eyelid. “So do you masturbate thinking of men?”, he asked. I said, “yes, bhaiyya, I do”. That was it. He never questioned me anymore about that. It brought us even closer to each other after that. He watches me masturbate every morning and night and passes me the hanky to clean up afterward. He is never shy of undressing in front of me. Why should he be? He is my bhaiyya after all. I have read of incestuous relationships but we are not into having sex with each other, we are just comfortable with each others nudity. Being in the bathroom together is an everyday occurrence for us. He is my best friend, is my bro.

As I said, my bro is handsome and in college he used to get numerous letters from gushing female classmates. He enjoyed all the adulation and would tell me about their curvaceous assets and what he would do to them once he had them in their bedrooms. We both knew that he would never avail of such opportunities. My bro is a master at fantasizing but truth be told, he is as decent as an angel. No wonder girls would fall for him by the droves. We would talk about how our fantasies were different – his strictly heterosexual and mine completely homosexual. We would discuss how I could get a guy to our bedroom when dad was at the shop. Finally, when I was 19 I managed to get one thin, bespectacled classmate of mine from the college. The first thing I did when I got him inside was to take off his spectacles. He wore thick milk bottle glasses and without them he was half blind. Which was just as well, since he couldn’t spot my bro standing in the semi dark behind the bathroom door he had kept ajar! Afterward we laughed about it, my brother and I. But sadly, I could not get that classmate for sex again. He started calling me “weird”. I wonder why. I tried to get him to talk to my bro but he refused. Silly boy! I am sure he would have liked my bro.

Next I got another guy, a married one this time, to bed one afternoon. A most hideous experience. He stank! And in the end he wanted money. I was terrified. I called out to my bro. Then it was his turn to be terrified. I have never seen a man dress up so fast and leave. Haha! That was it. My bro has forbidden me to get guys home unless he has okayed them first. He is so protective of me!

I was down with jaundice and typhoid when my brother was getting married. So I couldn’t join the celebrations. I was sad that I could not be as free with my bro after his marriage. But he assured me that he would take his wife into confidence and be my best friend as always. Dear bro!

Why do bad things happen to good people? His marriage was a disaster. He told me that his wife would not even let him fuck her on their bridal night. All she did was talk of was money and business. Sick bitch! Spoiled my brother’s happiness. I would kill her if I could!

After his divorce my bro and I talk late into the night about his future plans. Dad seems to be sliding further into depression. He has taken to drinking which is alarming. My bro takes care that I never got depressed. He screens my fuck buddies with a hawk eye. Ever my protective brother!

I can see my father coming back to the shop. He is alone. It’s about time, I think to myself. I want to be out of this shop and go home.

I unlock the door of our house. It’s dark inside. “Why haven’t you switched on the light?” I ask my brother. He doesn’t reply. He sits on the rocking chair with a gentle smile on his face. We have hung a family portrait above the rocking chair. Funnily it has just dad, mom and me. But bro says that he didn’t want to be photographed so they kept him out of the shot.

I place my shoes on the shoe rack. It's just my shoes kept there. In fact I have never seen my brother’s shoes! “Let me make some macaroni for us”, I quip. He nods. I make it and pour it in a large bowl. There’s just one spoon. We eat using the same spoon. Afterward I wash up.

His side of the bed is always made. He never wrinkles it as he sleeps. His clothes on the hanger are always ironed. Funny, how I have never actually seen his clothes get dirty. I lie down on my side of the bed and put on the reading light. He never puts on his. In fact there is none on his side of the bed. As I said before, he never disturbs me when I am re-reading my favorite Agatha Christie – The Murder of Roger Ackroyd.

The Light of Another Day - A Short Story

I can hear my ma wailing still. They took my daddy away. All those men in khaki uniforms. They barged into our shack in the evening and dragged him away in handcuffs. For all his wild rages he went meekly with them. For the first time in my life I could actually see him blubbering in fear. They said that he was a monster for having killed his own son. The newspapers and the television crews came next. Ma was too shocked to respond to their badgering. No one took much notice of me, a deformed deaf-mute ten year old girl.

Oh Bhaiyya! Daddy hurt you with an iron rod for refusing to give him twenty rupees for a drink. You collapsed on the ground but you still crawled over me and shielded my body to make sure daddy didn’t use the rod on me. I held you and was so terrified that I couldn’t even cry. You groaned in pain till you could feel no more. Even then you shielded me from the angry rod.

The neighbors said that I was a witch. The day I was born daddy lost one of his legs while crossing the railway tracks. With that accident he lost his job at the factory where he worked and took to drinking and beating ma. The municipality midwife who delivered me whispered sympathetically in ma’s ears that unfortunately I was a girl and a deformed one at that. Soon they came to know that I couldn’t speak or hear. Of what use is Asha who is so ugly that her ma and daddy wish that she had been a still born? At least the men would turn their eyes away in disgust and not go after Asha when she gets older, intoned my aunt. Perhaps Asha should, my aunt said, in the true spirit of her name wish for an early death for herself before she looks more and more like a witch as she grows older.

Love! This word I have experienced only from you Bhaiyya, my elder brother, in my ten years on this earth. If only I was more deserving of being loved! I wish I could have been born a pretty girl so that my parents could have felt proud of showing me off to the world. But you Bhaiyya, you loved me anyways. You held me in your strong arms and protected me from the violence of our daddy. You took all the thrashings so that I was untouched by his rages. You ate less so that I could eat my fill. You carried me to the municipal garden in the evenings so that I could play among the flowers. You made me feel that I deserved to live and that my ugliness was of no consequence. You cleaned and bathed me when I was ill. You kissed me goodnight every night. You got me books so that I could read far beyond what others of my age were reading. On many occasions I knew more than my teacher at the municipal school! If God gives life and nurtures that life, Bhaiyya, you are my God.

Tonight as I walk towards the railway tracks to join you I feel that it’s the most natural thing for me to do. Who else on this earth will love me like the way you do? How can I leave you alone when you have always been by my side? Who will make little garlands for you and draw stars for you? Even Vishal is not where you have gone now. It’s a starry night and the millions of stars in the Milky Way are twinkling down at me walking bare feet to meet you wearing the same frock and hair band that you had given me on my birthday. The sharp stones prick my feet and make them bleed. But I am not afraid; soon I will have no feet and no need of blood.

Do you remember how you met Vishal for the first time on a night like this? You and I were sitting by the highway watching cars and trucks whiz past us. Suddenly one bike shuddered to a halt by our side of the road. Something was broken with the engine. A well-dressed youth got off and wheeled it right by us. He sat on his haunches and tried to coax it to start. Bhaiyya you were always so good with engines. You went over to the stalled bike and helped. Within no time the bike was raring to go. The youth was thanking you profusely. You shyly refused his offer of money. Just like you Bhaiyya to do good deeds for strangers. And he became friends with you. Right there. Who would believe that my Bhaiyya from the slums would be friends with a high up man? I felt so proud of you Bhaiyya! His name was Vishal and he was a year younger than you. So that made him seventeen.

Bhaiyya, till that night, I had never really known you to have any friends. Our neighborhood kids were too rowdy for you. You had always been gentle and shunned their boisterous play. Vishal took instantly to you. It was strange for me to see Vishal coming to that spot night after night to meet you. He would always bring sweets for me. He called me his little angel and liked to ruffle my curls.

In the months that followed you and Vishal started meeting each other more and more, even during the day. The neighbors found it odd that a well-dressed man would walk up to our shack and whizz off with you on his bike. Sometimes I would come along as well. I would see the light in your eyes as you waited for Vishal to come and meet you. With him we went to some of the grandest places in Mumbai and ate the best food. He would never, ever make us feel that we were different from him. Vishal even learned a bit of sign language so that he could keep me amused. On Raksha Bandhan day that year and for the next two years both of you tied threads of brothers’ love around my wrist.

Frequently, on hot summer afternoons, Vishal would stay at our shack when there was no one but you and me. Daddy would be out on the railway platform begging. I would play outside in the shade by our door. I swore my silence to both of you when you told me that this was to be kept a big secret from everyone. In the evenings before ma came back you and Vishal would take off on his bike but you would always be back by 9 pm because you had to get me to sleep by 10 and you knew that I could not sleep without you by my side. I could see the stars twinkle in your eyes in those nights. It was a light of pure joy and contentment and I was happy for you as only a sister can be. You would hug me to sleep and I knew that you were hugging Vishal and me together in your mind. Stars, you would say, are making light during the nights so that the days could be brighter.

Everything was to turn right for the three of us. You said that you and me were going to live with Vishal soon, that the two of you had made all the plans to get married to each other. I had never heard of two men getting married. But, I guess, it’s all right if they loved each other as much as the two of you did. I would gladly bless you at your wedding. As long as my Bhaiyya and his beloved were happy I didn’t care what anyone else thought.

Just last week Vishal had to go to America for six months because he wanted to be a pilot. Before leaving, Vishal gave you a mobile phone so that you could talk many times every day. I can feel it vibrating in my frock pocket now. I press the green button and drop the phone among the stones – I can’t use sign language on the phone. Bhaiyya you had said that you would teach me how to send smses tomorrow. I must go and meet you. You will be so lonely. The stars above are still twinkling like they always did when you used to walk holding my hand along the highway. Their lights still shine heralding the light of another day.