Madhav

by Sneha Subramanian Kanta
(Mumbai, India)

The swing it lays

in one corner of the garden
where I played
where he played
until I lost him...
my brother
Madhav...

I still vividly remember our childhood days: and sitting on my desk today, I am unable to concentrate. Of a thousand intricacies of a child brain, we made up so many stories sitting here on this swing.

I remember an incident when amma told us not to cross the road without looking at both sides. Whenever I and he would go to the road across, I would look both sides and only then cross. Sometimes, he would run away through streaming cars and I would remain back. This, only to join him a little later after the traffic signal turned red.

He would often mock at me, for being this obedient and would laugh. I remember his words, each time I stopped in traffic, "Come soon, Aabha. We have to go back and play on the swing."

Whenever we used to play, seated on the swing, he used to push it far and go higher than me. I never minded it; but quietly enjoyed looking at him going so high with the swing. I secretly wished even I could, though.

We would run for the two rupee toffees and inevitably, it would always be him who got it first. Our races were most of the times futile because of the traffic signal. He knew that I would never cross when the maddening herd of vehicles would pass.

He kept laughing at me, day after day, every time we went past that signal. Until one day, he was laughingly whisked away.

I now roam in the garden filled with Bougainvilleas and as I walk past by; my old hands remember the delicate childhood surpassed. I try and make my way to the backyard of the garden, and like everyday, still see the swing right there.

Only this time, it is empty!

The flowers they grow
in one corner of the garden
where I played
where he played
until I lost him...
my brother
Madhav...

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