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.