Kabir

I knew from the beginning that my brother was likely to kill Aman. I knew it would be stupid to like him. But try being rude to a guy who says ‘thank you’ for the burnt rotis and tasteless dal you shove through the door. Who wishes you good morning politely and does not seem to blame you in the least for what is happening to him. I expected him to shout and curse and abuse me and his fate. But all he did was smile and say, ‘Thank you.’

The only thing that got a protest out of him was the tea. On the third morning, he put down the cup after taking one sip. ‘This is really bad tea,’ he said. ‘Do you think I could make it?’

I hesitated.

‘I’m not going to attack you or try to escape. I don’t believe in violence. And there isn’t anywhere to go, is there?’

I led him to the kitchen. The tea he made was strong and flavoured with ginger. Hindustani chai, not Kashmiri. We sat on the bench in the kitchen and sipped it. Ten minutes later, we were hotly arguing about Hindi film music.

‘Kishore Kumar,’ he said firmly. ‘Mohammed Rafi. S.D. Burman.’

‘They sang fifty years ago! Sonu Nigam. Arijit Singh. Atif Aslam.’

‘But listen to the songs. Listen to the lyrics.’ He could quote the lyrics by heart. ‘When the film industry started out, they got the poets to write their lyrics. Sahir Ludhianvi, Shakeel Badayuni, Kaifi Azmi—they were real poets. And those songs are poetry set to music. That is what lyrics should be. Poetry set to music.’

He smiled shyly at me and then quoted a few lines.

What songs will you carry on your lips?

Songs of love,

Soft on the lips you kiss with.

Song of protest,

Loud on the lips you scream with.

What songs will you leave in the world,

For other lips to carry?

Everything whispers to silence.

Only the songs remain.

Aman whispered the words and I was fascinated. ‘Who wrote that?’ I asked.

‘Me,’ said Aman.