Desmondz
10-13-2008, 02:53 PM
BhaiJan is a title given to the eldest brother in the family, it’s not a special title, it’s not unique, it is just a sign of respect that each family bestows on their elder son, bhaijan translates to “dear brother”, this story is about my bhaijan. I was a ten year old girl at the time, I remember the event’s happening as if I had just experienced them.
It was a very hot afternoon, I remember my mother talking with the other women in the village like she always did trying to collect the daily gossip like a hummingbird after nectar; my father was visiting the neighboring village trying to resolve a conflict regarding the use of the local river; and then there was bhaijan sitting on the roof waching the clouds pass by like he always did, how I loved him so much…, the young men were jealous of his strength, the elders were impressed with his wisdom, the women constantly fought for his attention, all of this did not matter to bhaijan he was always lost in his own world. I was his little sister, but I was so in love with him, when he smiled at me my day brightend, when he held me I felt as if I left the world and entered heaven, when I cried, when I acted up bhaijan was there, he was… my bhaijan.
Bhaijan was always called on by the elders for advice, he was always asked to help resolve problems with familes who were in qurraels with each other, he would help tend the fields, and help the elderly, even though he did so much he was quite man, he hardly said a word if he had no reason to speak, he loved to be alone, others said he was thinking of ways to make life better for the villagers, but I knew my bhaijan better then anyone, I knew he daydreamed, I knew how his eyes followed the birds as they flew in the sky, I watched how his eye’s followed the leaves of tree’s as they danced with the wind, I remember even one time as we were walking down to the river he stopped and picked me up and said, “Look Amira, look how the trees wave at us, look how they welcome us”… from that day on I always waved back…he was of course my bhajan.
I was too young to understand the days events then, but I remember my father had rushed back home and went directly to my brother, I do not remember much that was said to bhaijan by my father but I remember a distinct line, he had said to him ” Dear son, how is it that such a wise man can be so foolish”, I remember the elders rushing to our home, they approached bhaijan and tried to talk him out of something, bhaijan nodded and agreed, it had seemed like they were successful in their task, but I know my bhaijan….he was my bhaijan of course.
The next day I saw him leaving the village during the day, he had confessed to everyone their was girl he loved, a girl he wished to bring back with him, he asked to go alone, and because he was bhaijan they accepted his request and let him be on his way, I followed bhaijan as stealthly as I could have, how I wish I had stopped him, how I wish I had shown him how the trees did not wave at him this time..how he was not welcomed. After a long period walking I saw a older man in the distance, he seemed to be the age of an elder, his white beard shone in the afternoon sun, in his right hand he held a sword, quickly hiding behind a tree I watched with horror as my bhaijan, the one who I loved more then life itself, drew his sword.
I refuse to describe what happend during the battle…as quickly as it had started, it had finished, my bhaijan fell to the floor, I ran screaming his name, the old man stood there watching me as I cried over my bhaijan’s lifeless body, “bhaijan” I cried, “please bhaijan, wake up” I pleaded, because I was a child I did not know what to do, I tried to gather his spilled blood and tried to put it back into his body, foolishly thinking that if I only gave back what he lost he would return, he was my bhaijan….. he was my bhaijan..
the old man stood there, and he did not say a word, he gathered his things and he said to me before he left ” little girl, remember that even the mightest lion falls”. I looked up at him with such dispair that even he could not look me in the eyes.
As I sit near his grave, I run my hands down his tombstone, my tears watering the soil, I say “Look dear Bhaijan, the trees, the tree wave one last time”.
he was…my … bhaijan.
(I also have a blog for my short stories, desmondz.wordpress.com, I will be posting a few of my stories here because I need input, and need people to be as critical as possible, thnak you!)
It was a very hot afternoon, I remember my mother talking with the other women in the village like she always did trying to collect the daily gossip like a hummingbird after nectar; my father was visiting the neighboring village trying to resolve a conflict regarding the use of the local river; and then there was bhaijan sitting on the roof waching the clouds pass by like he always did, how I loved him so much…, the young men were jealous of his strength, the elders were impressed with his wisdom, the women constantly fought for his attention, all of this did not matter to bhaijan he was always lost in his own world. I was his little sister, but I was so in love with him, when he smiled at me my day brightend, when he held me I felt as if I left the world and entered heaven, when I cried, when I acted up bhaijan was there, he was… my bhaijan.
Bhaijan was always called on by the elders for advice, he was always asked to help resolve problems with familes who were in qurraels with each other, he would help tend the fields, and help the elderly, even though he did so much he was quite man, he hardly said a word if he had no reason to speak, he loved to be alone, others said he was thinking of ways to make life better for the villagers, but I knew my bhaijan better then anyone, I knew he daydreamed, I knew how his eyes followed the birds as they flew in the sky, I watched how his eye’s followed the leaves of tree’s as they danced with the wind, I remember even one time as we were walking down to the river he stopped and picked me up and said, “Look Amira, look how the trees wave at us, look how they welcome us”… from that day on I always waved back…he was of course my bhajan.
I was too young to understand the days events then, but I remember my father had rushed back home and went directly to my brother, I do not remember much that was said to bhaijan by my father but I remember a distinct line, he had said to him ” Dear son, how is it that such a wise man can be so foolish”, I remember the elders rushing to our home, they approached bhaijan and tried to talk him out of something, bhaijan nodded and agreed, it had seemed like they were successful in their task, but I know my bhaijan….he was my bhaijan of course.
The next day I saw him leaving the village during the day, he had confessed to everyone their was girl he loved, a girl he wished to bring back with him, he asked to go alone, and because he was bhaijan they accepted his request and let him be on his way, I followed bhaijan as stealthly as I could have, how I wish I had stopped him, how I wish I had shown him how the trees did not wave at him this time..how he was not welcomed. After a long period walking I saw a older man in the distance, he seemed to be the age of an elder, his white beard shone in the afternoon sun, in his right hand he held a sword, quickly hiding behind a tree I watched with horror as my bhaijan, the one who I loved more then life itself, drew his sword.
I refuse to describe what happend during the battle…as quickly as it had started, it had finished, my bhaijan fell to the floor, I ran screaming his name, the old man stood there watching me as I cried over my bhaijan’s lifeless body, “bhaijan” I cried, “please bhaijan, wake up” I pleaded, because I was a child I did not know what to do, I tried to gather his spilled blood and tried to put it back into his body, foolishly thinking that if I only gave back what he lost he would return, he was my bhaijan….. he was my bhaijan..
the old man stood there, and he did not say a word, he gathered his things and he said to me before he left ” little girl, remember that even the mightest lion falls”. I looked up at him with such dispair that even he could not look me in the eyes.
As I sit near his grave, I run my hands down his tombstone, my tears watering the soil, I say “Look dear Bhaijan, the trees, the tree wave one last time”.
he was…my … bhaijan.
(I also have a blog for my short stories, desmondz.wordpress.com, I will be posting a few of my stories here because I need input, and need people to be as critical as possible, thnak you!)