Mix-Bag

To Live

When he was five, my younger brother, he cried our heads out because he wanted a cricket kit. Determined to become a cricketer, he followed...worshiped Sachin Tendulkar, Donald Bradman, M Muralitharan, Ricky Ponting, Brian Lara and many more for their excellence in their respective roles in the field. He watched each and every test, ODI , 20-20, IPL, World Cup and god forbid his wrath if I'd forgot to mention any other important series of matches. He kept his eyes glued to everything that happened around the cricket world. Soon, our locality had their very own Cricket Guru, Octopus Baba aka my little brother.
Computer games made their debut in the international markets and got my brother hit with the fever. All that came out of him whenever I got him something, or ask to do a chore or try to play with him had now confined to a two syllable word, 'K O!' Actually, I'm not sure if that's even a word. Anyhow, it was seriously irritating but I had to live with it. After tolerating more than enough of his rants about how all of his friends had personal computers and X Boxes at their homes, we had to get him one of those costly junk boxes to amuse himself in exchange of mom's precious TV, Dad's aspiring school result and my peace of mind. At least, he remained faithful to his words. After all, that stupid box had turned out more productive than mom'Idiot Box'. And then, he wanted to become a gamer and a game designer.
That's how he started to play day and night breaking records of other online score submitting bucket heads. He started cracking the firmware of sophisticated, high firewall protected games and started learning binary codes from a geeky neighbor of ours. Together they created custom code GIFs for social networking sites, taught people how they could cheat with their Anti-virus subscriptions, sneak into their neighbors' internet connection, create viral jokes, get autolikes and followers in thousands etc.
At the age of 15, he broke his arm twice, sprained his ankles a couple of times and got his head banged on the floor almost everyday because he wanted to be a hip-hop dancer. Finally, after his third plaster, we got him admitted to a dancing school of good reputation. That turned him into an uncontrollable chipmunk. He wouldn't eat without shaking a leg or two, wouldn't move in the house without practicing cartwheels, and would never pick up anything without popping his arms and neck. Ignoring our requests, he dyed his hairs in blonde, blue, red, purple and what not combination of colors. His hairs had become an experimenting specimen for local aspiring barbers. Or hairstylists, as they prefer. He kept further damaging his body and got us buy him a large mirror to be fitted in the spare wall of his room so he could practice at home. He participated in local, district and state level competitions. Managed to meet some big names in the industry he doesn't want to brag about and found himself a job as a freelance background dancer. We never asked what he earned. We were happy he wasn't asking for pocket money anymore.
His 18th year hit him with puberty stricken desires for the first time. College, I guess. All of a sudden, his soul started to identify itself with poetry. He started to write flowery prose, listened to sad songs and got himself a new passion. Guitar. Hence, oh his birthday, we got him one. A shiny solid wood mahogany acoustic one. A really costly one because he wouldn't settle for a laminated piece. Before he could ask, we started our hunt for a fine art music class but to our surprise, this time he didn't bother to take it. YouTube had it all for him. It took him two months of excessive practice to play excellent pieces of his own creativity. His written lifeless words found soul through that instrument and soon he was famous like hell in his college. Girls adored him, his musical chords and his beautiful voice. Why not, he did it for them anyway. Soul, rhythm and blues, pop and occasional techno were his style. He never chose to go for rock.
By the time of his graduation, our dad fell into deep thought about him. We had never discouraged him for any of his ever emerging hobbies but it was time to be serious about his career. The one job that he wanted to devote his whole life to. It was fairly a hard decision on his part. Not to my surprise, he had never given it a thought and thinking about it the way I just described made him wince at the idea.
"Do one thing? For the rest of my life?" he had asked horrified at the proposal. After frequent quarrels, mom's melodrama, dad's killing silence, my indifference and his depressed emo look became boring, he decided to become a professional photographer. Our parents were reluctant at the idea but decided to compromise with it. At least he had promised to stay a photographer his whole life. Not a promise, an oath to be more precise that mom had him swear on her head in the kitchen near the burning stove. 'Agni shapath' cum 'Maa ke sar ki kasam', I had heard her say. Hence, as the next session arrived, he was admitted to the best college of photography in the nation to get trained.
As I had expected, he learnt better than I knew people can. Two notches better than a fresher and already perfect to enter any competition. Dad's occasional sighs about how his talented son could top some educational course as easily and do something to be proud on were ignored by us like he spoke of earthlings landing on aliens' planets. In two years of time, he had found a job paying nice. All he had to do was click clear and expressive pictures of moving objects. Animals, humans, a flying plane, a running car, a falling drop of water, flying dandelions, anything; moving. And with his moving job, he moved out.
I had went to visit his new apartment after a short while, pictures of great photographers lined his hall and bedroom walls, even the washrooms and fridge were pinned down with his own printed stickers of memorable shots by these great clickers. He had jumped up in joy and emptied my wallet that night on the treat he took forcefully on my promotion. After some neat and some mixed shots of deluding alcohol he revealed how sad he was that he had to work under people, under pressure, under somebody else's will. I bid him farewell the next day with a small good bye note while he kept smiling in his slumber.
Some months later, I received a post card from Berlin addressed to my new rented apartment from my brother who was on a travel shoot with his team there. I wrote him back. 'You really do not have to do it."
After I got married and he found himself a girl while I was getting other thoughts the hour before the main procession of my wedding, he decided he had enough. He lost his job soon after which, I and some banks had to lend him money.
One and a half year later, My parents moved in with him at his house leaving our old apartment where we grew up, to me, hence helping me saving the rent, keeping up with my job and providing me the extra space for the new member of the family.
My daughter, four and a half now, had just learnt what a 'role model' is and if asked, tells my brother's name, his favorite uncle. His smart uncle who can play cricket, can sing, can play guitar, can dance, can understand video games and technical gadgets, can click exceptional pictures, has travelled the world, has a girlfriend with whom he is to get engaged in a week and who runs a successful event management business now.
Today, he came to visit me and family, returned my money with an extra amount he said is for my daughter to get the best makeover on her favorite uncle's sagai ceremony, but it's a lot for that. Today, dad sighed once again saying, "Didn't I always say how proud he was going to make me? So I always let him follow his heart.". Today, mom asked him to never let his itch of trying new things settle down because life is a short span of time and there's only one chance to live it. Today, after all these years that I kept my mask of indifference on before everyone, I decided to let go and asked him to teach me live...and him? Today, after promising his bride to be that he would become a linguist now because she belongs to another state and knows two native languages mostly unknown to him, he thanked me.
What is MY job?
When he was five, my younger brother, my job was to complete his homework and back up for him when he used sneak out for gully cricket matches. When he grew ten, my job was to ask for a computer excusing it on my studies so that he could play games and to fix him up with our nerdy neighbor in exchange of parts from my desktop. When he turned fifteen, my job was to convince our parents how dancing could save his life in multiple ways such as, by keeping him fit and healthy and flexible hence blocking diseases such as blood pressure, diabetes, obesity, cholesterol and joint pains and could help put an end to broken bones if nothing. And the eighteenth year? I just had to put my whole year's pocket money on his 'tambura' as mom would say. During his graduation, I had the job to pursue what dad wanted him to because I wanted him to do what he wanted and dad to feel proud. After he moved out, my job was to fill the void he had created in the house so I got married. When he left his job, my job was to forget that I wanted to build a house and lend him money for his business. What do I do?
Oh nothing, I'm just an engineer and an elder brother who wants to live now. Perhaps become the role model for my brother's child someday?