Where Are You?

I never did understand why my father haboured such hatred towards you. My young mind always had this question in replay: Why is there animosity between the two of them?

You are my brother and he is my father. Shouldn't he be addressing you as "son" and not acknowledge you by that noncommital grunt?

I remember those tense evenings in our old house. I couldn't understand what you adults were saying but I always remember seeing Mama crying, my father shouting and you leaving, closing the front door quietly as possible behind you.

And then there were those mornings when my father had already left for work and I was getting ready for school. You appeared and we all ate lunch together. As I dressed up in my room, I could hear you talk to Mama. Her conversation with you would always be punctuated with her crying.

Etched in my memory were also those warm and sticky afternoons where both Mama and I would walk in what I would call a foreign territory. Dwarfed by the tall watchtowers, I was afraid of the expressionless and armed Gurkha guards.

Waiting for our turn to visit you, I would venture outside the holding room only to see gates and fences and the guards. "Why are there these people with guns, Mama?" I would ask. Mama would just smile and pulled me close to her.

Finally we were going somewhere. But where and what is this place? When we entered the musty room, I wondered who are the rest of the people? I saw an old lady, hands feebly holding on to her walking cane, walking towards a bench. Then I saw a young lady with five kids in tow, all ready and huddled on the bench nearest the wall.

I looked up to my mother. She took confident strides while holding my hand in hers. Amidst the crowded room, she found us an empty bench to sit on. As I settled myself on the bench, I saw you on the other side of the glass.