Chapter 1 - My Brothers & Meera

The sun beat down mercilessly upon my skin, its scorching rays searing through the fabric of my shirt. 'Burn me once more,' I thought bitterly, staring up at the unforgiving sky. It was a stark reminder of my own insignificance, of the vast expanse of time and space that stretched out before me. The sun, indifferent to my suffering, continued its relentless ascent, casting harsh shadows upon the dusty ground below. With a heavy heart, I trudged forward, the weight of my regrets bearing down upon me like a burden too heavy to bear. My skin was red and raw, but strangely, I welcomed the sensation. I forced a smile, though it failed to reach my eyes. I had burned all the bridges, all the memories, all the feelings. I had nothing left to lose. Nothing left to feel. I was numb, and oddly, I found solace in that numbness.

Just as I began to drown in my thoughts, the piercing ringtone of my phone shattered the tranquility. With a reluctant sigh, I reached for the device, my heart quickening with a mix of apprehension and curiosity. Glancing at the caller ID, I noticed an unfamiliar number, sparking a surge of uncertainty.

With a hesitant hand, I answered the call, the cool metal of the phone contrasting with the lingering warmth of the sun on my skin. "Hello?" My voice was guarded, betraying a hint of apprehension. Walking into my room, I felt numb and empty. The news of my brother's death in a car accident had just reached me. We hadn't spoken in years, ever since a falling out over some trivial matter. I was lost, unsure of how to feel, how to react, how to grieve.

My room mirrored my inner turmoil—a blend of order and chaos, passion and indifference. In the corner, a guitar leaned against the wall, next to a yoga mat rolled up neatly. I used to find solace in playing the guitar, in practicing yoga. But now, I had lost interest, lost motivation. A ceiling fan whirred above, offering a gentle breeze. I switched it off, preferring the stillness and silence. My bed, adorned with three colorful pillows, occupied the center of the room. But I rarely slept in it, opting instead to stay up late, watching TV or browsing the internet. I had no dreams, no goals, no plans. Opposite the bed, a large cupboard housed books and dresses, reflecting my varied interests and tastes. I once loved to read, to learn, to explore. I loved to express myself through fashion. But now, I had grown indifferent, lost in my numbness.

Sitting on the bed, I felt a whirlwind of emotions—or perhaps, the lack thereof. I reached for a photo album hidden under my pillow, opening it to see my brother's face. A surge of emotion engulfed me—a mix of love and hate, regret and resentment, sadness and anger. I closed my eyes, and tears welled up, streaming down my cheeks.

Feeling a sudden pang in my chest, I looked at the photo of Meera, my ex-girlfriend. She was smiling, her brown eyes sparkling, her blonde hair falling over her shoulders. I remembered the night we spent together, the night before she left me for good. I could still smell the smoke of the cigarette we shared, the taste of her lips on mine. We were lying on the bed, naked and sweaty, the sheets tangled around us. I wrapped my arms around her, feeling her heartbeat against my chest. I felt happy, content, and alive.

We talked about philosophy and life, our favorite topics. I asked her the big questions, the ones that had haunted me since I was a child. I hoped to find some answers, some meaning, some purpose.

"I wish I wasn't born at all," I said, staring at the ceiling. I'd always felt like an outsider, a misfit, a burden. I'd never felt like I belonged anywhere, or to anyone.

She chuckled and kissed my cheek. "Still edgy, Akhil?" she teased me. She always found my pessimism amusing, endearing, even. She always tried to cheer me up, to make me see the bright side of things.

I laughed and kissed her back. I loved her, more than anything. I thought she loved me too. I was wrong.

I asked her, "What do you think we are here for?" I wanted to know her opinion, her perspective, her worldview. I wanted to understand her, to connect with her, to share with her.She shrugged and said, "I don't know, nobody does." She was always a skeptic, a realist, a pragmatist. She never cared much for metaphysics, religion, or spirituality. She lived in the present, for the moment, for herself.

I asked her, "Do you believe in God?" I wondered if she had any faith, any hope, any trust. I searched for some sign, some clue, some hint.

She said, "I don't know." She was always agnostic, indifferent, uncertain. She never committed to any belief, any doctrine, any creed. She kept her options open, her mind free, her heart guarded.

I said, "I wish there was a God." I longed for some guidance, some comfort, some grace. I needed something, someone, to help me, to save me, to love me.

She said nothing. She looked away, her expression cold, her eyes distant. She'd already made up her mind, her decision, her plan. She left me the next day, without a word, without a reason, without a goodbye.

I gently tucked the photo album back under the pillow, its weight heavy with memories and emotions. With trembling hands, I wiped away the tears that cascaded down my cheeks, leaving salty trails in their wake. The ache in my heart compelled me to seek solace in the shared memories of my brother, to connect with someone who knew him intimately, and who loved him unconditionally.

My fingers instinctively reached for the familiar device, my lifeline to the past, to the echoes of his laughter and the warmth of his presence. Each digit dialed carried the weight of years of silence, of missed opportunities to bridge the growing chasm between us. I silently prayed that his number remained unchanged, a lifeline to the past that I was desperate to grasp.

With each ring, my heart pounded in anticipation, a cacophony of hope and fear swirling within me. Would he answer? Would he recognize the voice that trembled with regret and longing? Or would my call be met with the deafening silence of indifference, a stark reminder of the fractures that time had wrought?

"Hello?" His voice, once vibrant with youth and energy, now carried the weight of years gone by, the weariness of a life marked by loss and longing.

"Hari?" My voice wavered, the name a fragile lifeline tethering me to the past. "It's me. Akhil."The ensuing silence stretched like an eternity, each passing moment weighted with unspoken truths and unresolved emotions. I listened intently, the sound of his breaths a balm to my wounded soul, the rhythm of his heartbeat echoing the ache within my chest.

"Akhil?" His disbelief was palpable, a raw undercurrent that threatened to engulf us both

 "Is that you?"

"Yes, Hari. It's me. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

His response was a torrent of anger and pain, a searing indictment of my failures and shortcomings. Each accusation landed like a blow, the weight of his words a burden too heavy to bear.

I hung my head in shame, the weight of guilt pressing down upon me like a suffocating blanket. "He's dead, Akhil. He's fucking dead. Did you know that? Did you care?"

His words pierced through the haze of my grief, cutting to the core of my being with surgical precision. I felt the sting of tears welling up once more, the bitter taste of regret flooding my senses.

"I know, Hari. I know. I care. I do."

But my words rang hollow in the face of his righteous anger, a feeble attempt to bridge the chasm that divided us. I was a broken man, shattered by the weight of my failures and shortcomings. As he unleashed a torrent of curses and sobs, I was left speechless, my throat constricted with unspoken apologies and unshed tears. I listened in silence, bearing witness to his pain and anguish, a silent witness to the wreckage of our shared past. As the call ended, the silence in the room was deafening. I sat motionless on the edge of my bed, my phone slipping from my numb fingers to the crumpled sheets below. The echoes of Hari's anger and grief still lingered, reverberating off the walls of my sunlit room. Each accusation felt like a weight pressing down on my chest, threatening to suffocate me.

I closed my eyes, trying to shut out the memories that threatened to overwhelm me. But they came flooding back with relentless force, a torrent of regrets and missed opportunities. I replayed the moments in my mind, searching for signs of where it all went wrong. Was there something I could have said or done to prevent this tragedy? The weight of my guilt bore down on me like a heavy shroud, enveloping me in darkness. I struggled to catch my breath, each inhale feeling like a battle against the suffocating grip of my emotions. Tears welled up in my eyes, but I refused to let them fall. I had cried enough tears for a lifetime.

Slowly, I rose from the bed, my movements heavy and labored. I crossed the room to the window, the warm sunlight streaming in offering a brief respite from the stifling atmosphere within. I stared out into the day, the brightness of the world outside contrasting sharply with the darkness of my soul.

I couldn't help but notice the guitar sitting in the corner of the room, gathering dust like a forgotten relic of the past. Its presence seemed to beckon to me, a silent invitation to revisit memories I had long tried to bury. With a heavy sigh, I crossed the room and reached for it, the familiar weight of the instrument grounding me in the present.

As I settled back onto the bed, the guitar nestled in my lap like an old friend, I felt a strange sense of comfort wash over me. My fingers instinctively found their way to the strings, hesitantly at first, then with growing confidence.

As the familiar strings of the guitar settled into my grip, my mind became a tempest of memories and regrets. With each chord, I delved deeper into the labyrinth of my thoughts. "Hari..." The name echoed in my mind, laden with the weight of years of silence and missed opportunities. Guilt gnawed at me, a relentless beast tearing at the fabric of my being. "I should have called more often. I should have been there for him." The words reverberated within me, a bitter acknowledgment of my own failures.

Yet, amidst the cacophony of self-recrimination, there was a glimmer of solace in the music. Each note was a cathartic release, a chance to pour my heartache and remorse into something tangible. "I'm sorry, Hari. I'm sorry, brother." The apology hung heavy in the air, a desperate plea for forgiveness that may never come.

But as the melody swelled and filled the room, I found myself enveloped in a strange sense of peace. In the music, I found a fleeting respite from the storm raging within me, a momentary reprieve from the burden of my guilt.

Stepping out into the open, I found myself bathed in the warm glow of the sun, its rays painting the world in a golden hue. The streets, usually bustling with activity, were eerily quiet, devoid of the usual hum of vehicles. It was as if the world had paused, the silence punctuated only by the distant rustling of leaves.

In this stillness, a familiar figure emerged - Pranav. An old friend, a relic from my past, one of the few who still remained in my life. His eyes, usually alight with the thrill of discussing his latest anime obsession, met mine with a hint of concern. "Are you okay?" he asked, his voice breaking the silence. I could only muster a vague excuse in response before I turned away, leaving him standing there. Pranav had just returned from abroad last week, his passion for anime undiminished by time and distance. Yet, as I moved forward, his excited chatter about his favorite shows seemed like a distant echo, drowned out by the storm of thoughts brewing in my mind.

With each step, memories of my brother flooded back, a torrent of emotions threatening to overwhelm me. We had grown apart, a chasm of silence and unspoken words widening between us with time. Now, he was gone, lost to me forever. The finality of it was a bitter pill to swallow. I found myself yearning for the existence of a heaven, a place where he could be at peace. A pang of regret washed over me. Why had I allowed the distance between us to grow? The question echoed in my mind, a painful reminder of the bond we had lost. The world around me continued to move, oblivious to the turmoil within me.

The memory of that day, when we were just 10 or 11, was as vivid as if it had happened yesterday. It was a day like any other, the sun shining brightly in the clear blue sky, the air filled with the laughter and chatter of children at play. We were engrossed in a game of our own invention, a game that revolved around a brick that served as Aladdin's lamp. We would divide ourselves into two teams, and a toss would decide which team would have the 'lamp' first. Each team would then select a 'genie', a powerful figure in the game. The other players had to obey the command of the genie if they were spotted. The thrill of the chase, the anticipation of being caught, and the exhilaration of outsmarting the 'genie' made the game an exciting adventure for us. But that day, the game took an unexpected turn. An argument broke out, heated words were exchanged, and tempers flared. A friend of mine, a large guy, hit my brother. Back then, though we were close, we didn't show it in front of others. But we both knew we loved each other to death.

My brother couldn't win the fight. The sight of him crying, his face contorted in pain, was too much for me to bear. I couldn't take it. I ran from there, saying I needed to go home. I held back my tears from them and ran.