tales of Suchita

Loss is a sticky thing. You will not think about it for years and years and then one random question will ignite that yearning again.

I remember my brother vividly. He was tall – well taller than me. I didn’t know if he was the tallest or simply average but to me, he was a mountain. The gap between us was wide. I was two years old when he was eighteen. In some ways he was my parent and my brother; though neither word does justice to how I felt about him.

He was…everything. I needed him when I cried. He had to just appear for me to smile. He knew I didn’t like bhindi so he would eat it before our mother could catch us. He knew me. No. He cared enough to learn about me.

I was a real terror to him. A knee-height child clinging to his leg as he went about his very adult business. He scolded me often for not giving him room to breathe. But he always showed up when I needed him. It was like he had a sixth sense.

My fondest memory was being on his shoulder, legs around his neck, as he ran through the fields, pointing out the various crops and insects we raced past.

I had to leave him behind when I was fourteen because a plague struck our home. My brother was the first to pack my bags, begging me to run. We hadn’t started evacuating by then but he knew – his sixth sense you see – always attuned to disaster that might affect me.

I refused, obviously, to leave him. He didn’t push me too much. I think he was relieved that the time of our parting had been postponed, for now.

Two weeks and twenty deaths later, he asked me to leave again. Some of our people had woken up to the idea that the children were not getting sick. That there could be some way of protecting them…maybe by sending them away.

I refused again but my conviction was wavering. I knew our parting was close. I could feel it racing towards me, almost like it was giving me a warning: I am coming. Prepare yourself.

I didn’t prepare myself. And leaving was once again deferred.

A month later, a few stragglers from a town close to ours wandered in. Only children. They looked weary, hungry and so, so sad. But they were alive. This time, when my brother asked me to leave, I couldn’t say no.

I wanted to live. It was perhaps selfish to say this but I didn’t want to die like the others. I had barely explored the world beyond my home. I wanted to do something, be someone. How would I do that if I died?

When I hugged my brother for the last time, I realized I had been preparing to leave since I was born. He was as bright as the sun and I couldn’t thrive in his shadows. He had always known this. But I had refused to accept it.

I wish my brother hadn’t uttered the next few words though. I knew he only meant them as a reassurance but they have run in a loop in my mind ever since.

He said, “I am coming right behind you.”

Like the fool that I was, I believed him. I knew there was a part of him that would always travel with me: his love and care. But those words. Oh, how those words have haunted my dreams and dogged my nightmares.

I have been waiting for him. Even as I have carried his loss. What would it be like if I let him go? Would his absence become easier to bear?

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For Letter E, written as part of #BlogchatterA2Z