by Nikita Singh
This is my last chance to pull my elder brother out of the pit he fell into a long time ago, and never found a way to climb out of. Over the years, I’ve made many failed attempts. In hindsight, they were feeble. I had chosen not to confront the true cause of his ailment; I had chosen to focus on the symptoms instead, and tried to fix them. It was easier that way, more manageable. But it hadn’t worked. This time, I’m determined to do whatever it takes. Everyone we know has written him off as a good-for-nothing burden on our parents and society. People love to bad-mouth him and worry about him, loudly and without inhibition. But I know who he is. I know what he’s made of. I’m made of the same fabric.
‘Yes, I’ll spoon-feed you, if that’s what it takes,’ I say firmly, holding the gatte ki sabzi wrapped in a bite of roti in front of his mouth.
Amir leans forward and eats it. Despite his resistance, it’s clear to me that he’s hungry. When did he last have real food? Does he just survive on Old Monk and ganja? I wouldn’t be surprised if the only food he ever encounters are the peanuts and sev he eats as chakhna or nibbles.
Once I finish feeding him what’s on the plate, I lift a glass of water and hold it to his lips. I tilt the steel glass, and he gulps down the water. He reeks of alcohol. It’s still in his system. It’ll be gone soon enough. ‘One more roti?’ I ask hopefully.
Amir shakes his head. ‘This is more food than I’ve eaten all year. As you can see.’ He points to his body with his chin. The skin on his arms is hanging against his bones. Whatever muscles he once had, built over a decade of playing cricket, have melted away with the alcohol abuse. He has dark, deep shadows underneath his eyes, a hollow face hidden behind a scruffy grey beard and moustache. Up close, as I study my brother’s face, he seems unfamiliar. This is not the face I have known my whole life, the person I grew up with. My heart is caught in my throat. I feel like I might choke on my own breath.
Amir looks away. We’ve never been good at confronting emotions. Which is why it was easier for me to abduct him and lock him in a room than talk to him.
‘So, what’s the plan here? How long are you going to keep me prisoner?’ he asks in a nonchalant tone that I can see through.
‘As long as it takes.’
‘As long as it takes for what? I hate to break it to you, meri pyari behna, but there’s no saving me. Trust me, I’ve tried.’ He lets out a dry chuckle.
‘I don’t believe that,’ I say, as my heart sinks. I have to grow a thick skin if I have any real hope of saving him from himself. The pregnancy hormones don’t help. But at least I have experience and determination. Last time, he ran away because I had tied his hands together, but not to the bedpost. This time, I’ve thought everything through. I’ve read as much as I could about alcohol withdrawal, I’ve removed sharp objects from the room, moved the TV to the bedroom so Amir has some stimulation. I am prepared to watch for the withdrawal symptoms. I’ve read about people who were so addicted to alcohol that they died from withdrawal. I won’t let that happen to Amir. I’ll be watching him, ready to call Dr Mishra from the clinic if required.
‘You’re in for a disappointment,’ Amir mutters. There’s that word. Everyone loves to use that word for him. I’m sick of it. This will not be a disappointment. I don’t care about what people say, but I will not let him disappoint himself this time.
‘Then so be it,’ I say swiftly as I get up. ‘See you at dinner.’
To his credit, Talha isn’t as surprised as I had expected him to be when he comes home to find the bedroom occupied by a smelly, grumpy lump that is my brother.
‘You’re back.’
Talha turns at the sound of my voice. He smiles at me and shakes his head. ‘We’re looking at another cold turkey then?’
‘I’m sorry I didn’t tell you!’
‘Are you really?’ He tilts his head, questioningly.
‘No,’ I say softly. He reaches for me and I melt into his arms. He smells like himself, a smell I have missed in the few days that he was away. My heart is bursting at the seams, holding the good news inside me. ‘Come with me,’ I say, pulling him to the living room.
Talha turns to close the bedroom door and Amir calls out, ‘Good to have you back, Jiju. You can be in charge of tying and untying me every time I have to go to the bathroom now.’
‘Looking forward to it,’ Talha says, as I lead him to the living room. Talha points to the small divan against the wall and says, ‘That’s our bed indefinitely, I presume?’
I nod distractedly, my heart racing. The memories of previous disappointments are fresh and sharp. For a moment, I question whether I should even share the news with Talha. My heart still cannot fully fathom that the baby is healthy and safe. My lower lip trembles despite my attempts to control myself. Hot, unshed tears hurt the inside of my nose.
‘Hey, hey, hey, what’s wrong?’ Talha cradles my face in his hands. ‘Are you worried about Amir? I know it’s scary. I’m worried too. But I’m here now, so you don’t have to do this alone.’
His warmth and concern are more than I can handle; I burst out crying. ‘It’s not that …’ I manage to get out between sobs. ‘It’s not about Amir. Just … give me a second.’
After holding me patiently for several minutes as I sob in his arms, Talha asks, ‘What is it? Barkha?’
I peel myself off my husband’s chest and sniff. ‘Don’t worry. It’s good news,’ I say.
Talha waits expectantly for me to continue.
I raise my eyebrows. ‘Talha, it’s good news.’
Comprehension dawns in his eyes. His lips stretch into a smile that retreats just as quickly. ‘Is it …? What if …?’ His face is frigid with concern. He clears his throat and speaks carefully, ‘When did you find out? How long has it been? Have you been to a doctor yet? We have to be really really careful in the first trimester.’
All the grief from our previous losses surfaces on Talha’s face. I reach out and stroke his beard. ‘It’s okay. It’s different this time. I’m already in my second trimester. The doctor says everything is as it should be and there’s no need to worry about—’
Before I can finish, Talha pulls me in his arms. I feel his body rise and fall with the force of his deep, troubled breathing. I hold him tighter, leaning on him as much as supporting him. This time, it will be different, I promise myself. Different for all of us. Talha, Amir and me.
‘Someone hold him down,’ Dr Mishra says in a clipped, urgent tone, speaking loudly over Amir’s screams. ‘Hold his right arm in place. Don’t let it shake at all.’
‘What’s happening? What’s happening?’ I cry, even as I know that I should keep my mouth shut and stay out of the way. I shouldn’t distract the doctor trying to save my brother’s life.
‘He’s dehydrated. Electrolyte imbalance and possible Vitamin-B deficiency.’
I cannot find anything comforting in his flat, sterile tone to cling to. Amir struggles under my grip, groans in agony, and I press down on him harder. He loses consciousness, leaving us in sudden silence. A chill travels down my spine. I look at Talha, who’s busy following orders, focused on doing whatever the doctor asks him to do. Soon, two nurses join us. I look at every face around me, before quietly slipping out of the room.
First, I go to the bathroom to vomit. Then, to the kitchen to take a long sip of cold water, then to the living room, to sit down on the divan, stroke the baby in my belly and listen to the voices coming from the bedroom. Eventually, the voices subside. I meet this makeshift medical care team at the entrance. It is dark and silent, way past midnight. The city is asleep, and so were we, when I was awakened by the sound of Amir choking.
Before I can say anything, Dr Mishra holds up his hand. ‘You did everything right. You called me as soon as you could, and that saved Amir’s life tonight.’
‘But … but … I’m the one who put his life in danger. I locked him up, made him go cold turkey …’ I gasp. My throat is parched.
‘You didn’t slowly taper off his alcohol inta
ke?’ Dr Mishra asks sharply.
‘Yes, yes, I did. I gave him less and less alcohol every day, like you said … But then, since it’s been over a month, I stopped giving him any. He hasn’t had a drop in … ten days. Eleven days. He’s been locked in there for a month and a half …’ My mind races, as I try to count back the days and narrow it down to the exact day I stopped giving him any alcohol.
‘Well, then you did everything right. I should’ve come to check on him earlier … I’ll do that now. I’ll check on him every evening after I close my clinic.’
I nod fervently.
‘Thank you, doctor,’ Talha says. His eyes are wide. I want to cry just thinking about him, awakened from his sleep, put through a rigorous, heart-wrenching medical emergency. We’ve gone through this together too many times. He continues, ‘Is there anything we should be doing differently? What happened?’
‘This was expected. It wasn’t out of the ordinary. Amir has never made it this far in his recovery from alcohol addiction, so you can imagine how much of a shock it must be to his system. He needs more care than ever before. I can come here to monitor his vital signs every day and help his body go through the detox. But …’ Dr Mishra looks from Talha to me.
‘What is it?’ I whisper, my heart sinking.
‘You have to monitor his mental health status. That’s equally important. I don’t know how spiritual you are, but I look at it this way: a body is just a shell our soul resides in. I can keep the body healthy, give it everything it needs. But we are not just our bodies.’ Dr Mishra pauses. For the first time tonight, his voice holds compassion as he says, ‘If you truly hope for Amir to recover, and never relapse … if you want him to get better, he needs help with his mental health. I will prescribe him sleeping pills, and even antidepressants and painkillers as required, but that’s only a part of it.’
My jaws clench.
‘Thank you, Dr Mishra,’ Talha says.
‘Welcome. I’ll come back for a check-up tomorrow after 6 p.m.’ Dr Mishra looks at me one last time, then leaves with the two nurses.
While Talha goes to lock the door behind them, I lay my palm over the baby and tiptoe into the bedroom. In the dull light of the 10-watt bulb in the bedroom, Amir’s face glows with sweat. I sit down on the bed next to him and wipe his forehead with my cotton dupatta. Talha peeks in from the door.
‘It’s not easy,’ I say, grinding my teeth. Confronting Amir’s mental health also means confronting my own mental health, something I haven’t done in fifteen years. We are a sweep-it-under-the-rug type of family. It’s the only way we know how to do things.
Talha steps into the bedroom and begins cleaning up. He doesn’t say anything, because he doesn’t need to. Sometime later, once we’ve made sure that Amir is comfortable and everything is where it’s supposed to be, I lie down on the bed next to him, to keep an eye on him. Talha brings a blanket from the living room, unfurls it on the floor of the bedroom and lies down on his makeshift bed.
I wait till Talha leaves for his office the next day before going to Amir with a glass of nimbu pani, with the intention of doing what Dr Mishra had advised me to do the night before. My hands shake as I set down the steel glass with the lemon water with a clink on the table next to the bed.
‘Thanks for finally untying me,’ Amir says bitterly. His voice comes out as a low, raspy breath. The distress he went through last night is apparent in his voice, his face, the defeat in his eyes.
Unable to contain the thoughts that have been crowding my brain since last night, eager to get it out in the open, I blurt out, ‘You can’t die.’
‘Good thing I didn’t. Even though you came close to killing me last night.’
‘Shut up. I’m serious. You can’t die. I can’t handle it.’
‘Okay. If you can’t tell, I’m trying. What do you want me to do? You literally have me locked up in here. What else can I possibly do to appease you?’ He speaks with annoyance, but there isn’t any malice in his words.
‘I need you to let it go. Forget about what happened and move on. It’s been fifteen years,’ I say evenly. I have the words arranged and ready.
Amir freezes. If there’s one thing that’s remained consistent ever since the incident, it’s that we never talk about it. It’s for good reason. It doesn’t lead anywhere, so we leave that can of worms unopened. It has reached a point where if I don’t talk about it, I might lose my brother forever. That’s the only thought that gives me the courage to say what I say next.
‘It happened to me, but I know it was harder for you.’ I can’t bear to look into his wounded eyes. I look away, at the floor. ‘But, Bhai, I was able to move on. It took me a long time. I spent years and years in the depths of depression. Only, I was high-functioning. I masked it, held my head high, carried on. You didn’t see me whenever I was alone. I would cry myself to sleep every night. I would be in physical pain from carrying the memories of the night I was attacked.’
‘Raped.’
My eyes dart to his, taken aback. My mouth opens, but I can’t speak.
‘If you’re so over it, so moved on, as you put it, then you can at least say the word.’
It’s okay. I’m okay. He’s lashing out because he’s in pain. I take a few shallow breaths, and say, ‘I never said that I’m over it. I can never be over it. But I’ve tried my best to forget it. Pushed the memories away every time they resurface. And trust me, they resurface plenty of times. Just because I push them away, and never talk about what happened, doesn’t mean I don’t still suffer, that I don’t still feel scared when I walk alone in the dark, that I don’t have nightmares and I don’t—’
‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry,’ Amir says, looking genuinely remorseful. ‘I didn’t mean to say—’
‘No, we have to say things. We have to get it out in the open. It’s been long enough! If we don’t, you will quite literally die, if not from alcohol poisoning then from kidney failure or depression or self-harm or a hundred other things I’m terrified of every day. And I will never recover from it. If we don’t talk about it now, we are both done. It’s just a matter of time. One way or another, it will kill us both.’ As I say it, I realize the gravity of my words.
‘I don’t want to die! Don’t you think that if I wanted to die, I wouldn’t be here right now? I would’ve been long gone. But I’m here, every day, tied to this bed, locked in this room, depending on my younger sister to feed me, my brother-in-law to look after me. I must be costing you so much money. The doctor and medicines and everything. Especially now, with the baby coming …’
‘How do you know about the baby?’ I ask, taken by surprise.
‘Oh, please. I’m neither completely blind nor that self-involved that I wouldn’t notice that I’m about to have a baby niece or nephew.’
‘Then be there for your little niece or nephew. Move on from the past. You can’t let it govern your life and come in the way of—’
‘It’s not that easy! Don’t you think I’ve tried? It’s easy for you to say it’s in the past, but it’s not. Not for me. I relive it every single day. I sank so deep …’ Amir shakes his head. His forehead is lined with the wrinkles of a much older man. At thirty-six, he looks ten years older. Grief and alcohol have fed on him for years, leaving him a hollow shell. ‘It was all I thought about, every waking minute. For years and years. Revenge and fury and what ifs and a hundred other questions. I thought about it so much that it’s become a part of me. I can never get rid of it. Sometimes, if I try really hard, I can go a whole day without thinking about it, but then I fall asleep. And my nightmares take me right back there … finding you, too late. Don’t you think there’s a reason I prefer passing out? At least then I don’t dream.’
I remember how Amir’s world had changed forever that night. It was his friend who had raped me. It was through Amir that he had got close enough to me to rape me. Amir had found me, and never forgiven himself for any of it: asking me to take admission in his college, making me move to Indore
from our small town, sending his friend to pick me up from a party one night. He must know that it wasn’t his fault, he didn’t do anything. But he has taken the blame for it from the beginning. He has never let himself off the hook. He dropped out of college after that, in his third year. I was only in my first year, and I continued, holding my head high. Doing anything else would’ve given my assaulter more power. I had been determined.
Amir had dealt with his grief differently. He had let it fill his heart, his soul. He had lived in it. Ever since we were kids, he had taken the role of the protector very seriously. No matter what the circumstance, it was a big brother’s responsibility to protect his little sister. After this incident, he had decided that he was a failure and never recovered from that belief.
No one knew about the rape, but there were rumours about something. Something significant enough to make a student in his final year of college flee. Because that’s what he did, my rapist. He disappeared. Then Amir dropped out and I stayed. No one could understand why; if something had happened to me, and I was okay, should my brother be so broken? Over the years, he’s been ostracized, considered a useless drunk with no job, no college degree, nothing to contribute. Our own parents have treated him like an outcast ever since his first depressive episode.
What they don’t understand is that I had to suppress everything and move on, to survive. Over the years, I let it resurface slowly, dealt with the mountain of despair in pieces. Amir, on the other hand, felt it all at once. He let it shatter him, and could never glue the pieces back together. As I look at him now, all I see is the twenty-one-year-old young man whose life I changed forever, for the worse. I put a hand on his arm. ‘I didn’t know about your nightmares.’