I see you

Dear Naveed,

You robbed me of my dreams and I will never forgive you for that. I sit here on clunky steel chairs, getting squashed in-between two pigs with their protruding bellies and manhood of superiority installed in between their legs as they scavenge my flesh; their eyes stripping me naked even in front of the ICU. The pungent smell of sweat hangs in the air as the heat of an evening July lingers. Abbu’s at the front desk filling all the paperwork of your little stunt as Ammu stands wailing in hysteria at the horizon of the glass sliding doors.

“Visitors not allowed”.

9 whole months of you snagging her consciousness apart in her womb as your fingertips gnawed at her skin, and all it took was for an overdose to turn her into a visitor. Such is the fate of death, I suppose. Or should I say, coma? Tell me Naveed, were your drugs worth my future? Was —

The creases of my fingertips hollow in the shape of the pen as the ink bleeds into the side of my palms. Before I even get to finish my last letter to my older brother, Abbu calls. He pulls me aside and tells me to take care of my mother.

“You selfish little critter. Even after everything that has happened, you still brought that stupid little notebook of yours to the hospital? Just take a look at your mother. She’s falling apart and you’re scribbling. When will you grow up?”

Before he gets a chance to finish his monologue even, I decide to tone him out. When you’ve lived enough of your childhood changing the shape of your bones according to the needs of a patriarchal society, you learn to tune out the pests.

Where did it go wrong, I wonder? Was it when you left for college and moved into the dorms? Has to be. Afterall, the Naveed I knew wouldn’t do a selfish thing like this.

I still remember the July afternoons of the 2010s’: when we lay sprawled across the mosaic floors of our childhood home as National Geographic blasted Man vs Wild in the TV. Despite the 7-year age gap between us, we were always joined at the hip; debating whether we would ever resort to feasting on bugs like Bear Grylls if we were to be stranded in the Amazon Rainforest. Since Ammu-Abbu were government workers, they were never there. You were the one who raised me. You were the first person who let go of me, as I learned how to ride a bicycle; first person to teach me how to play poker when I was fifteen; first person to buy me my first perfume when Ammu thought I was just a teenager: Layer Wottagirl Secret Crush.

We dug sand out of our fingernails after collecting seashells at the beach; butchered “no glue, no borax” slime tutorials while wasting a gallon of Ammu’s shampoo; and tiptoed across the mosaic floors of our kitchen at midnight to make cha in-secret. You were my best-friend but I wasn’t yours. Figures. I was just 15 and you were 22. Your partner in crime was always Joyita, our cousin. You and her were only 6 months apart and spent your entire childhoods together in the same institution.

However, I wonder why Joyita always seemed so concerned whenever I talked about how great of a brother you were in your absence. She had an air of skepticism whenever I recounted the fondest memories I shared with you.

I mean, I understand teaching your younger sister how to gamble with money when she’s still a child is bad, but it was just a fun little card game for us. Why does it matter that you taught me how to pair cigarettes with cha at twilight? I was 15 and if you hadn’t introduced me to it, I would’ve gone and done it myself either way.

Joyita was always too strict. That is why she never got to leave unlike you.

After you left, I made a home for myself in your room like a host-pathogen. I never really moved anything, just basked in the evening glow of a home we once shared. You shone like glitter in my memories. The iridescent windchime swaying with the wind carried with it your laughter, the stacks of Nirvana and Red Hot Chilli Pepper CDs housed your heart and your translucent glass ashtray was embedded with the stench of your rancid breath and Axe body spray.

That is all in the past now. The Naveed I know now and the Naveed I knew 5 years ago is completely different. I mean, my actual older brother would’ve never done what this junkie did to me. He would’ve never trampled on my dreams like you did. You knew as a South-Asian woman in a conservative society, our parents wouldn’t have allowed me to study abroad without a husband. That is why it was so crucial for you to vouch for me. It’s funny, I had imagined countless times how I would land in Dublin, Ireland and study in Trinity College for my undergraduate studies. How the Hogwarts themed Book of Kells experience would be, how the long and elaborate halls with dangling chandeliers would look. All those years of torment and hard work went down the drain just like that. One phone call is all it took.

I’m 20 years old and it took your deathbed for me to realize that you were always a selfish man. All those years we shared was nothing but a mere front hiding your true grotesque visage. You used me, Naveed. You used me. Whether it was opening the front doors at 4 am in the morning for you when you were drunk out of your mind or lying on your behalf. Could you blame me though?

I had to delude myself into thinking you were the bridge I could tether myself to.

You were all I had.

Fictional Story inspired by the theme Nostalgia: a creation of fictitiou shappiness