A Tale Of Two Brothers

II

The world was at war.

September 1939, the British Raj had declared a war against the Nazi Germany. Billions of pounds were funded by the British Government, aiding the Indian Army at the battlefield. But India was already at a political surge.

Subhash Chandra Bose was once again elected as the President of the Indian National Congress and following a couple months had already resigned. But not long after did thirteen members resign from the party itself. Mahatma Gandhi had began yet another fast, in the glorious city of Bombay.

Adrith would sit by the radio, listening to the news all day, adjusting the stations, finding the ones that were clear, providing live news. On the other hand, Rudra would still not pay any attention. When Adrith or his father would ask him to listen to the news, and lectured him about how the events going on would determine his future too, he'd reply, "News is like milk; it doesn't last longer than a day."

They'd smoke in their own room, now that Adrith was all grown up, of age. Their parents could only put up a good effort to try and stop him. The father didn't argue as much, but the mother would keep on lecturing. But once they grew tired, Adrith grew shameless. Their mother complained that their room smelled of ashes when she went in there to clean. She once described it as the murkiness of a wildfire in a forest, the feeling of unrest would accompany the burnt smell. She'd constantly try and hide or throw away the box of cigarettes she'd find in their shirt pockets. Rudra was still young, but under his brother's shadow, he'd still keep his habit. While their mother expressed great opposition to it, her husband would be rather unbothered about it.

"They're growing up. It's a good sign," he said.

"The smoke makes me sick!"

"You burn agarbattis around the house everyday!" He snapped back.

She left in a fury.

Rudra was on his way to graduate within two years. He wrote essays and short stories in English, but would never publish them. He had stacked a pile of papers of his writing in a file, until that had grown thick enough to not snap closed, he started writing in a tiny book and stacked them under his bed. His father had gifted him a pen, an expensive one, and even though men were not really the ones to opt for writing, unless it was political, Rudra was blessed by his father.

The family was sitting together on the cold tiles, food served to them. It was a Sunday, and so the house wafted of chicken curry the mother would whip up. It was the most anticipated day of the week. They couldn't afford a whole bird, and so the mother would add huge chunks of potatoes to accompany the meat in the curry. Everyone's pieces were accounted for - two pieces of chicken and one potato. The curry would be thin enough, and so would also last for dinner.

At lunch, the radio was still blasting. Lately, Adrith was joint by his father, usually discussing Gandhi - who he disliked for some reason - and what was the British Raj upto with their country. At times, they'd have some almost violent quarrels about the Congress. Even though their father was a calm man, if he didn't agree with something, he'd express it. He was a teacher after all, a well-spoken, competitive man. Perhaps, that was what made his elder son speak out too. Rudra was the only one who kept his opinions to himself.

"Why don't you write an article on the the efforts of the INC to cast these white people out?" Adrith asked, picking up a slice of onion and chewing on it. "And then send it to a newspaper or magazine? I'm sure Baba can help you," he said nodding at his father.

"I don't feel the need to," Rudra replied plainly, then dragging a pinch of salt through his plate and licking it with his index finger. "I anyways don't like to write something unnecessarily politically charged. And there are not many English language magazines around."

"Well, you can always write it in Urdu, you know? When Baba goes to the city next time, he can give it to someone."

"There's no such need, Adu," the father cut in and then looked at his younger son. "Just write what you feel like writing -"

"- but don't you think he should write something that's important, something that people would actually want to read?" The stress on that word was very clear, and it made Rudra adjust himself on his hips, discomfort from his brother's words present on his face.

"Writing is a free fall, just like any art. Let it flow. It's the only way," the father replied, politely, in a sing-a-song manner, as if reciting a poem.

At night, when the brothers were sitting outside smoking, like they always did, Adrith was quieter than usual. He barely spoke. And Rudra could feel the pressure dawning on his head and shoulders; the tension between them, the silence was the result. He kept wondering what could it be, but he didn't want to ask or confront. He had communication problems. Because he didn't ever feel the need to confront, not just his brother, but anyone. And it sometimes made him feel like a coward. He'd get frustrated over the fact that he was always, in some ways, one step behind.

Suddenly, the silence was pierced when Adrith spoke.

"Want to go for a walk?"

"It's literally almost two in the morning!" Rudra only replied in a hiss.

"Come on! I want to show you something."

Rudra only rolled his eyes and kept his book down on the cold tile, and followed his brother in the very cold night. They passed the long graveyard, and then walked by a bunch of trees, through tall but freshly trimmed, uniform carpet of grass. They reached the edge of a peak. There was a huge boulder right before it, upon which Adrith went and sat, looked behind and patted the spot next to him.

Rudra obliged and joined him there. The city was clearly visible from there. It wasn't very bright like the day, but it was enough to see the entire structure of it: magnificent buildings, cars, bicycles, motorbikes, etc. These were all the things that everyone knew about a city, and even if it was too dark, they knew what it looked like.

Cities, Adrith believed, are an economic revolution.