To Jonathan

You can probably blame India for his death. Nobody truly
knows the real reason. Was it his madness that killed him
using his own hands, or was it somebody else's rage that put
an end to his life. People used to say he was an amazing
person till he met her. They used to say he was such a nice
guy with such potential, but she ruined it. She spoiled it
all. Yet nobody ever dared to blame her for the tragic end
of his life.
I personally admired him; his life was the reflection of all
my desires and dreams. My mom said that most probably it was
because I had never truly known him. But one thing was for
sure; I've never met a person, who could love his brother,
as I loved him. My parents chose not to mention his name
frequently after his death. They chose to ignore it. They
preferred to deny it. But I sometimes went to the basement
where he used to seclude himself from the whole world, play
his guitar, or listen to music and think. I reckon it was my
innocence that misled me, it was my childish and naïve
conscious which made me believe that maybe sitting in this
very place, in this very basement would bring me to the same
thoughts he had. And it would guide me to learn what
bothered him so much. And what was it in him that troubled
people yet made people praise him.
I could hear his voice calling me early in the morning. I
could see his silhouette in the shade every passerby. He was
there he never left. I missed his lectures on how a
gentleman should behave. I missed the fact that I felt
jealous when my parents admired every word and deed of his.
I missed these mornings when I used to get up early and wait
till the postman would bring the mail, and I wished so much
that I would find a letter from him among everything. I
missed the satisfaction of receiving his letters. I missed
his presence.
It's been six years since he was erased from the list of
living human creatures, when I realized that something had
to be done to end this horror. I had no ambitions, no
direction. For six years I could not function as a normal
person, the musings and thoughts were with me everywhere I
went. For six years I was questioning the goals of my life
and doubting the necessity of my existence. The only purpose
of my being was to endure through this ordeal. Till I
decided that the only thing that could free me from this
nightmare was going to India.
So I left. I left in spite of my mom's misery, in spite of
her frustration and her grief. I left and I never came back.
She probably blames India for my disappearance. And my
parents probably choose not to mention my name frequently.
They ignore it. They despise it. But I can only thank India
for setting me free. I was the only one who could justify my
departure to India. Nobody could understand the terror that
was going on inside of me. The torture and distress I was
experiencing each day.
My parents didn't believe that going to India would solve
the mystery of his death. Their despair made them avoid any
possibility of learning the reason for his demise. The
common explanation for his disappearance, which was a
suicide, served them in a way that they were able to
withstand this repression. They were able to go on. They
never wondered why his body was not found. Receiving his
suicide letter was enough evidence to grieve for the rest of
their lives.
Yet I couldn't go to India before talking to her. I didn't
really know what I was going to tell her. It's been six
years and I was not sure she would remember me. But she did.
When I approached her gates I saw the same wild and
passionate girl that my brother was so in love with. She has
not changed, she just got older. I had to tell her I was
leaving, I had to say goodbye. After all she was the reason
he went to India. She was the one who made his life up side
down. She was the one whom my parents hated so much. She was
the one whom I loved for all these years.

Being in India made me a brand new person. I never had
friends so it was not hard to say goodbye to them. I lost
any contact with my parents, who were the only victims of
this ironic and sad story. I felt sorry for them. After all
these years they never knew that he came back. That he was
not the one who wrote that letter. The letter, which made
them spiritually collapse, the letter, which destroyed the
lives of so many people. And I sometimes wonder if I would
have still killed him if I had a chance to take things
back.

"Look at the brothers fighting each other
I want to talk about woe."

The citation is taken from some book discussing Indian
philosophy (Buddhism), the name of which, unfortunately I
don't remember. I do apologize