Hey there, bhai.

Firstborn privilege is real. Years ago, you bent over that cradle and watched helpless little me stare at you in fright, and smiled knowingly. And that’s when Ma-Pa decided to walk in. Of course they thought that that was the cutest thing ever. Protective, loving older brother. Mom’s little angel. I think that’s the moment your evil, little mind hatched the most genius plan ever: that you could terrorize at least one tiny human all your life, and have one, or maybe even two full sized ones wrapped around your finger.

As we grew older, you put the plan into action. I fetched you water; I cleaned your side of the table; you got to have the remote all the damn time; you could watch cartoons freely and blame it on the kid in the room to look mature; you always had a starry eyed tiny human following your every move as you roller skated backwards at a snail’s pace, or as you hummed a song so unbelievably out of tune that you scared the neighbor’s poor dog. If you spilled some juice on the carpet, or broke some expensive showpiece, you always had clumsy ol’ butterfingers to take the fall; if I dared to question your authority, you would put the fear of God in me.

Everything was going smoothly, huh? Or so you thought. You forgot to consider that potato head could grow on you. That you could enjoy her presence. That you could start feeling responsible for that little nugget. That you might even admire her; secretly, of course. That she might be just as evil and sadistic as you could be. That on the day you looked inside the cradle, she might have looked up and thought that you were the sky and flapped her hands to fly a little, but, at the same time, you might have fallen a little. In awe. In love.

Maybe all this time I had a plan, too. A better one. You overlooked a major flaw in yours, bhai. Sure, You got to be Mom’s favorite, but me? I got to be yours.

 

Lub and Dairy Milk and hugs,

-Your baby sister.

Locals

I turned around to listen to his husky voice by the train door. It was almost merging with the train’s vibrations: every thump had a beat, every whistle had a melody. In fact his face was swinging with the train’s rhythm. He looked at me and smiled this beaming, real, vibrant smile for perhaps he could see that my gleaming ‘face of response’ had no enmity. Local trains are like that: for every bit of chaos, there would be a person like him: one laptop bag, some chapped memories (maybe), these sturdy, strong arms, bright, vivid shirts, one smile, one husky voice, and the world on their feet.

Cuckoos’ call

Humming his sorrows away, he talks about what life offers, what he has in store for the future, what he wants to achieve. Chai in one hand, my head in the other, I listen to him. He likes it when people do that; people like it when people do that: nothing to worry about, nothing to think about, no money to make, no Physics assessments to worry about, chai in one hand, their head in the other. Outside I see the clouds turn grey, outside I observe the cuckoos’ call from the corner of my eyes, outside it rains, inside I drown.

From- Lahore, India

I grew up listening to my grandfather tell me about his days of glory in pre- partitioned India. Stories of friendship, spirituality, a loving multi-religious community, of visits to the fair, of dips in the river. These stories would then change into stories of lamentation, of loss of his wealth built by his ancestors from scratch, and of missing old friends.

“…and that’s when it got bad…” he said and started to sob. Like a child, with big tears rolling down his cheeks, his face crumpled. He tried to wipe them away but they kept coming. We all paused. I did not say anything for several moments and then he said, “I’m sorry…” and continued to cry. The camera kept rolling. I was not surprised, nor embarrassed. Strangely he did not seem self-conscious either. “It’s okay. Please take your time” was all I said. Here I was interviewing my grandfather. It was a little while before he went on to tell us the horrific – and unfortunately all too common – story of how our family was uprooted, forced to flee and reduced to destitution as a result of the Partition of India in 1947.  I could see the partition in his eyes. His eyes were glowing, burning like Amritsar 1946. He could see his house get uprooted, all he ever had taken away. Is that why he never stopped writing ‘Lahore, India’ after all the letters he signed?

My grandfather’s letters time-travel.

Khaki clad

Two stars were talking to each other, when one of them pointed towards the Earth.

“That’s where they go when they die. But some of them are special, almost remarkable in their own way. They become a ‘marg darshak’ or someone who shows you the right path.”

“But, what characteristic makes them different?”

“You could say that most of them wear khaki.”