My Elder Brother

1

My elder brother was five years older than me, but only three grades ahead in school. He was admitted to school at the same age as I was, but in an important matter such as education, he would rather be patient. He wanted to lay a strong foundation to that magnificent edifice. He took two years to complete a one-year course, sometimes he took even three. How could the edifice stand if the foundations were not strong enough!

I was nine, he was fourteen. He had the full right of an elder to supervise and reprimand me. And decency demanded that I accept his order as law.

He was very studious by nature. He could always be found seated with his books open before him. And perhaps to rest his mind, he would sometimes draw pictures of sparrows, dogs and cats on the margin of his notebook. Sometimes he would write the same name, word or sentence ten or twenty times, sometimes he would copy out a couplet in beautiful letters a couple of times. Sometimes he wrote words that had no rhyme or reason. For instance, one day I saw the following word clusters in his notebook—special, ameena, bhaiyon-bhaiyon, dar-asal, bhai-bhai, radheshyam, shriyut radheshyam, ik ghantey tak—and the sketch of a man’s face. I couldn’t muster enough courage to ask him. He was in the ninth grade, I was in the fifth. I was too small to understand his creations.

I was not keen on studies. To stay with a book for an hour was like climbing up a mountain for me. As soon as I found a chance, I’d leave the hostel and go out in the field. There I’d throw pebbles, fly kites or just meet a buddy—what could be more fun? We scaled the walls and jumped down, sometimes we clambered up the gate, swinging it forward and backward, as though we were driving motor cars. But as soon as I returned to the room, I’d be petrified seeing the intimidating look on my brother’s face. His first question would be: ‘Where were you?’ Always the same question, asked in the same tone. My only answer was silence. I don’t know why I couldn’t manage to say that I’d been outside, playing. My silence indicated that I accepted my guilt and my brother’s only duty was to reprimand me in words that conveyed both his affection and anger.

‘If you study English this way, you’ll be studying your entire life without getting the alphabet right. Studying English is not a joke that anyone who wants to, can learn it. Had it been so, any stupid fellow would have been able to master it. You have to peer into books day and night, work your head off, only then can you probably acquire some skill. And even then, what you actually have is just a smattering of it. Even great scholars cannot write correct English, to say nothing of speaking it. And I ask you, how much of a brainless fellow are you are that you don’t learn a lesson by watching me? You’ve seen with your own eyes how much I toil. If you don’t see it, there must be something wrong with your eyesight or intellect. How many spectacles and shows are held, have you ever seen me going to watch them? Cricket and hockey matches are held every day, but I don’t even go near them. I study all the time, and even then, it takes me two to three years to pass one grade. How can you imagine that you’ll pass when you indulge in sports and games like this? It takes me two to three years to pass one grade, but you’ll rot in the same class for your entire life! If you want to waste your life like this, so be it. Go home and play tip cat as much as you want. Why waste our father’s hard-earned money?’

Such drubbings would often reduce me to tears. I had no answer, because I had committed the crime. My brother was an expert in the art of giving advice. He’d say stinging things, would shoot such verbal arrows as would pierce my heart, and my spirits would collapse. I didn’t find in myself the energy to work hard, and in this dispirited mood I’d begin to think—why shouldn’t I go back home? Why should I spoil my life meddling with work that was beyond my capability? I was content to remain ignorant rather than doing such hard work. Just thinking about it made me giddy. But the clouds of despair dispersed after an hour or two and I took resolve to work harder. I promptly worked out a timetable. How could I begin my work without drawing a schedule or a plan? This timetable had no period for games and sports. Wake up early morning, sit to study at six after washing and breakfast, study English from six to eight, eight to nine maths, nine to nine-thirty history, then meal and going to school. Rest for half an hour after returning from school at three-thirty, four to five geography, grammar from five to six, jogging for half an hour in front of the hostel, six-thirty to seven English composition, translation from eight to nine after dinner, Hindi from nine to ten, ten to eleven miscellaneous things, after that rest.

Planning a timetable is one thing, but implementing it is quite another. It was not adhered to right from the first day. The green expanse of the field, the light breeze blowing over you, the bouncing of a football, the kabaddi manoeuvres, the speed and agility of a volleyball match drew me irresistibly and I forgot everything. I wouldn’t remember the life-destroying timetable and eye-ruining books. And my brother got an opportunity to advise and disgrace me. I ran away from his shadow, tried to avoid him by all means. I entered the room on tiptoe so that he wouldn’t know. If he just looked at me, I stopped dead in my tracks. It was as though a naked sword was hanging on my head all the time. However, just as human beings, despite the awareness of misfortune and death, are always caught in temptations of all kinds, I could not give up games despite reprimands and rebukes.

2

The annual exams took place. My brother failed while I passed, securing first division. Now there was a gap of only two grades between us. I felt like giving him a piece of my mind—what came of your ascetic practice? Look at me, I enjoyed my life and yet passed in first division. But he was so sad and grief-stricken that I felt pity for him and didn’t feel like adding insult to his injury. But yes, I felt more confident now and my self- esteem went up. I was no longer scared of my brother. I began to participate in games freely. My spirits were running high. If he disgraced me again, I’d have retorted—what glory have you achieved by working so hard? I obtained distinction so easily. Even though I didn’t have enough courage to show off my new-found arrogance, it was clear from my demeanour that I was no longer scared of him. My brother could surmise this—he was clever enough. One day, when I was returning to lunch, having played tipcat the entire morning, he burst out, with the air of unsheathing a sword: ‘I can see that because you have passed this year, and that too in the first division, you’re thinking no end of yourself. But, my dear brother, when great men lived to regret their vanity, who are you compared to them? You must have read about what happened to Ravan. What lesson have you drawn from him? Or did you read it just for the sake of reading? Just passing an exam is no big deal, the real thing is to develop your mind. Try to understand the significance of what you read. Ravan was the master of the earth. Such a king was called chakravarty, that is, ruler of the world. Nowadays, the British have spread their empire in different parts of the world. But you cannot call the British king a chakravarty. There are many nations in the world which do not accept English rule, they are independent. Ravan was a chakravarty, all the kings of the world paid tribute to him. Even great divinities were his slaves. Even the God of fire and the God of water were his slaves. But what was his end? Vanity destroyed him, no one was left to offer him even a fistful of water. Men may commit other crimes, but they must not be arrogant or proud. Whoever resorts to vanity, loses both the worlds. You must have read the story of Satan too. He was proud of the fact that he was the truest of God’s devotees. Eventually, it so happened that he was pushed out of heaven to hell. The Persian emperor was arrogant and he died a beggar.

‘You have just passed one exam. If it turns your head, then you are done for. Make no mistake, you’ve passed by fluke and not by the dint of your hard work. And you cannot be lucky again and again. Sometimes, you can hit correctly in tipcat too, but it does not mean you’re a successful player. A successful player is one who doesn’t miss his mark even once. Don’t look at my failure. When you reach the same grade, you’ll realize how tough it is. You’ll have to cut your teeth in algebra and chemistry, and study the history of England. It’s not easy to remember the names of kings. There are at least eight Henrys to remember. Do you think it’s easy to remember which event had happened in the time of which Henry? If you write Henry the eighth in place of Henry the seventh, you lose all marks! A total washout. Not even a cipher, you know. What do you think? There are dozens of James, dozens of Williams and scores of Charles. Your head begins to spin, your mind is in a whirl. These wretched fellows didn’t have enough names to go around. After every name they had to put first, second, third, fourth, fifth, etc. If they had asked me, I could’ve reeled off a million names. And as for geometry—only God can save us! If you write A, C, B in place of A, B, C, your whole answer is marked wrong. Why doesn’t someone ask these cruel examiners that ultimately what’s the difference between A, B, C and A, C, B? And why do they kill students for this worthless exercise? Whether you eat pulses–rice–roti or rice–pulses–roti, what is so important about it? But no, these examiners don’t care a bit. They blindly follow what is written in the book. They want students to mug up every word and this rote learning is given the name of education. After all, what’s the use of learning these useless things? If you draw that perpendicular on this line, the base will be two times that of the perpendicular. Can you ask them, what’s the use? Whether it becomes double or four times or remains half, what have I to do with it? But if you want to pass the exam you need to mug up all that nonsense. They ask—write an essay on ‘punctuality’ which should not be less than four pages. Now you open the notebook, hold the pen and begin cursing your fate. Who doesn’t know that punctuality’s a very good thing? It inculcates self-control in human beings, it evokes respect from others and facilitates the conduct of business. But how can you extend this little thing to four pages? If something can be expressed in just one sentence, what is the point of writing it in four pages? I call it stupidity. You don’t save time by doing so, rather it is a waste of time since you’re imposing a lot of things by force. We want a man to say what he wants to say promptly and then get moving. But no, you must blacken four full pages, no matter what you write. And the pages are of foolscap size. What is it if not tyranny on the students? It’s even more useless when the instruction says, Write in brief.” “Briefly write an essay on the punctuality of time”, which should not be written in less than four pages! Come on! If “briefly” means four pages, then if it’s not brief, should it run into one or two hundred pages! Run fast as well as slow. Nonsense, isn’t it? Even a child can understand such minor things, but these teachers don’t have this much common sense. On top of it, they’ve tall claims of being teachers!

‘When you reach my class, sweetheart, you’ll have to undergo the drill, and you’ll realize how tough it is to survive in the world. Just because you’ve got a first division, you’re giving yourself a lot of airs! Follow what I’ve just said. Even if I’ve flunked the exam a million times, I’m older than you, I’ve much more experience of this world than you. Follow my advice closely, you’ll never repent.

It was nearly school time, otherwise God knows when he’d have ended his peroration. The meal seemed quite tasteless to me today. I was given this reprimand even though I had passed the exam. Had I flunked, perhaps he’d have taken my life. The terrifying picture my brother had drawn of his class petrified me. It’s surprising why I did not leave school at once for home. But despite the reprimands, my disinterestedness in books remained as it was. I did not miss any opportunity to participate in games. I studied too, but very little. I somehow completed my daily assignment so that I wasn’t disgraced in the class. The confidence that I had gained disappeared, and once again, I began to live life like a thief.

3

Annual exams happened again and I passed again and my brother flunked. I didn’t work too hard but I don’t know how I passed in first division. It surprised me too. My brother had just about killed himself with work, mugging up each word in his syllabus. He followed a rigorous schedule—up to ten in the night, from four in the morning, six to nine-thirty before school. His face had become pale because of the hard labour, but the poor chap failed again and I felt sorry for him. When the result was declared, he broke down in tears and cried, and so did I. The joy of my passing was cut by half. Had I failed with him, he wouldn’t have grieved so much. But who could prevent what was fated to happen.

Now it was the difference of just one grade between my brother and me. A wicked thought crossed my mind—if my brother failed one more time, we’d be in the same grade, and there’d be no basis for him to insult me. But I forced that mean thought out of my mind. After all, he scolded me for my own good. It might not have seemed good at the time, for sure, but maybe it was only as a result of his advice that I’d passed so effortlessly and with good marks.

Now my brother had become much gentler towards me. Several times when he got an opportunity to scold me, he behaved much more patiently. Perhaps he was beginning to understand that he didn’t have the right to scold me any more, or at least not so much as before. I became more independent. I began to take unfair advantage of his tolerance. I started thinking that I’d pass next time, whether I studied or not, that my luck was favourable. As a result, I stopped whatever little I studied before out of fear of my brother. I developed a new interest in flying kites, and now most of my time was spent in kite-flying. I still had esteem for my brother and concealed my kite-flying from him. Problems such as pasting the string with ground glass, tying the edges of the paper, preparing for the kite-flying tournaments were solved secretly. I didn’t want to let my brother suspect the fact that my respect for him had lessened in any way.

One evening, far from the hostel, I was running frantically to grab hold of a kite. My eyes were fixed skywards and my mind concentrated on that heavenly traveller which was gently swaying to its fall. It was as if some soul had emerged out of heaven and was coming to earth dispassionately to take a new form. A whole army of boys came running to welcome this, holding long bamboo poles. Nobody was aware of who was in front or back of him. It was as though they were flying with the kite in the sky where everything was plain—there were no cars, trams or any other vehicles.

Suddenly I bumped into my brother, who was probably returning from the market. He grabbed my hand and said angrily, ‘Have you lost all sense of shame that you’re running with these street urchins after a one-paisa kite? You’ve no consideration for the fact that you’re no longer in a lower grade. You’re in the eighth grade now, just one below me. After all, a man ought to have some regard for his position. There was a time when students passing the eighth grade were eligible for the post of nayab tehsildar. I know many with a middle grade who are top-class deputy magistrates or superintendents. Many others are now our leaders and newspaper editors. Many highly educated people work as their subordinates. And you, forgetting that you’re in eighth grade, are running with these ragamuffins for a kite.

‘I pity your stupidity. No doubt you’re intelligent, but what use is your intelligence if it kills your self-esteem? You must be thinking that you’re just one grade below me and now I don’t have any right to advise you. But you’re mistaken. I am five years older than you—and even if you come to the same grade as I am in, and if the examiners act in this fashion, I’m sure, you’ll join me next year in the same grade, and who knows you may become my senior one day—that difference of five years is something which not even God, to say nothing of you, can remove. I’m than five years older you and will always remain so. You can never catch up with the experience I’ve of life and the world even if you obtain an MA, DLitt or DPhil. Wisdom comes to one by not simply reading books, but through worldly experience. Our mother isn’t educated at all, even our father probably never went beyond the fifth or the sixth standard. But even if we studied the wisdom of the whole world, they’ll still have the right to instruct and correct us. Not just because they’re our parents but because they’ll always have more worldly experience.

‘Maybe they do not know what kind of government they have in America, how many times Henry the eighth had married and how many constellations there are in the sky, but there are a thousand things they know more about than you or me. God forbid but should I fall sick today, you’d be at your wits’ end. You won’t be able to think of anything other than sending a telegram to Father. But in such a case, he won’t send anybody a telegram or get nervous or distressed or confused. First, he’d try to diagnose the disease and find a cure, and if he fails he’d call the doctor. Well, dealing with sickness is something serious, we don’t even know how to manage our expenses through the month. We spend whatever Father sends us for the month in twenty days and then we’ve to beg for each paisa. We cut out our breakfast, we run away from facing the washerman and the barber. But as much as you and I spend today, for half that amount father has maintained himself and looked after his extended family of nine members very honourably for the greater part of his life. Look at our headmaster sahib. He is an MA, is he not? Not from here, but Oxford. He earns a thousand rupees a month, but do you know who manages his household? His old mother. The headmaster sahib’s degree is useless in such matters. Earlier, when he managed the household himself, his earnings always proved insufficient. He was always borrowing from others. Since his mother has taken matters in her hands, it is as though Goddess Lakshmi has taken up her abode there. So, my dear brother, put this pride out of your heart that you’ve almost caught up with me and you’re independent now. Under my watchful eyes you can’t go off the track. If you don’t mend then (he said this showing me his fist), I can use this too. I know my words might sound like poison to you . . .’

I was filled with shame when I heard this new argument. I realized how small I was and I felt deep respect for my brother in the core of my heart. With tears in my eyes, I said, ‘No, no. What you say is completely true and you have every right to say it.’

My brother embraced me and said, ‘I don’t forbid you to fly kites. I’d like to do it too. But what can I do? If I go off the track myself, how can I prevent you from going astray? That’s my responsibility.

Just then by chance, a kite that had been cut loose flew over us with its string fluttering. A crowd of boys were chasing it. My brother was a tall man. He leapt to grab the string and began running frantically towards the hostel. I too was running after him.

Translated from the Hindi by M. Asaduddin