The Brother that wasn't...

She hid her face in the pillow...and left patches of moist. Such occasions were often, almost symbolic her age. Perpetually misunderstood by parents, joker of the class at school, non existent love life. Nothing ever seemed right. Then of course, there was the change in ideology or rather the development of one, general rebellion against convention and the struggle of an individual to stand out. All in all life was miserable. If only, she thought, if only she had an elder brother whom she could hug and cry...who would know what she was going through...in whose strong arms she would become stronger...feel protected, loved...if only...

He would have to be strong, yes, that was necessary. And he would be heavily into music. He would play a guitar for sure and he would have wonderful, warm arms. He would have to be sensitive and charming. He would crack jokes at her cost and yet be very protective about her. He would have to stand by her side and hold her hand. He would have to be the coolest brother on the planet. But in spite of all this, the fact remained that her very birth proved that she would never have the elder brother she craved for...not ever. She knew this. And yet in every relationship she had she searched for the brother of her dreams...the man who was going to stand by her and tell her it was alright even if she failed...and be proud of her.

Subtlety was not his last name. He was outspoken and straight forward. He told people exactly what he thought of them. Sensitive, well, you wouldn't want to rub him wrong. His colleagues shivered when he faced them and bitched behind...not that he cared. He reminded her of a Chieftain on horseback...a black horse for sure wielding his sword and at whoever's neck the sword rested died of sheer panic, even before the sword could perform the needful. She exuded independence. Having gotten over adolescence had also made her get over that craving for a male figure. And yet something quivered inside her everytime he smiled or cracked a joke at her expense. It was almost as if the Chieftain let his sword do the speaking and had marked his territory. He loved fighter planes and ships. She loved them too. He loved camping. And so did she. He hated egg plant. She was allergic to them. They wanted to see the same places. They enjoyed the sweetness of doing nothing. They enjoyed reading in windy balconies. No, it was not love. It was plain identification. People bitched. Playing favourites he was. He did not care. Neither did she. When things were made difficult for her, he stood by her, rock solid like the Chieftain guarding his territory and no one wanted to be at the receiving end of the sword. She often looked at his arms and wondered how it would be to snuggle into them. He could not help but touch her gently on the cheek. He was a hardened general but to her he was a teddy bear. If he did not look at her one day, she could have torn the world apart. He would scold her for not doing what she was meant to do. She would do anything to make him proud. And when she would, he would declare it to the world like a King declaring the birth of his heir. And no, they were not in love. He was a brother and he meant it. And she was his little sister.

(dedicated to Bhai Huzoor...)