A younger brother. A small boy. He found it difficult to
smile when asked to. In any family photograph, he can be seen among smiling
faces, baring his teeth in a horrible way, with expressionless eyes. He loved to
listen to stories and never drank enough water. He loved keeping mum and ate
his rice imagining them as horses entering the cave of his mouth. Like in the Alibaba and 40 thieves story. He loved
to flip through comics, losing himself in the colorful pages.
No one in his family smoked cigarettes. Probably for this
reason he developed a fascination for the golden and silver packets that were
often found around in my house. On one occasion there was an especially large,
white case that was found in the terrace of one of our relatives. White, with a
red border running around it. Making it look grand and special. We fought over
it and I, in my selfishness, tore it in pieces. If not me then no one else. The
younger brother did not cry. Probably he doesn't know how to cry as well, I
thought.
Years later, this younger brother will grow up to be a silent
but sharp young fellow. He will know his numbers and his fractions. He will
sing songs that are very less celebrated and tell stories about how the singer committed
suicide after going into a depression when his album did not sell. He will
complain at being poked awake from sleep and will have forgotten the trauma of
trying to smile for a family portrait when he didn't feel like smiling. He will
develop a love for abominably long walks and perpetually put the family in
worry over his lanky figure. But most of all, he will blush when the striking
similarity of his features with that of Bruce Lee is pointed out.
He will blush and smile.
