Butterflies and Hurricanes

My little brother and I played many imaginative games with our toys as kids. Some involved high speed car chases, while some were tear-inducing family dramas. In the evenings we rode our cycles around the neighbourhood, or climbed the kachnar tree or played in the park.

Mangu (as we all loved to call him) and I were inseparable. On days we felt extra adventurous, we’d climb the forbidden laal chhat (the red terrace). We weren’t allowed to go there, because it was too high and too slanting. But we were fearless, unfettered, emboldened by each other’s company. So we climbed. We played. We ran. We giggled together, happy with our little shared secret.

Some of my earliest memories are of him stretched out on the floor bawling, asking my parents to let him wear my frocks, my bangles, my hair-clips. I loved to share them with him, and even offered to tie the ribbon at the back. Sometimes I even took the liberty to raid my mom’s make-up kit and applied a bright coat of red lipstick on him.

At night, he wouldn’t fall asleep unless I took out my ‘Song Diary’ and sang to him. The lyrics all misheard, misspelled, misinterpreted.

When our pet dog Cherry passed away, we kept her photo between us and wept silently. The pain united and comforted us.

When we were younger, he would take out his picture books and insist I read to him. I was too young to read myself, so I just practised the art of fake reading. I’d open the books, point to the pictures, and spin senseless but vivid stories. I’d make the bunny rabbit eat dal chawal before he bounded off to play, and I’d make the frog finish his Hindi homework before he went to catch flies. The stories always had happy endings. But he was mostly never awake to hear them.

Most days when I’d wake up in the morning, his head would be buried in my back, or his hand would be clutching my pinky.

Sometimes we’d just lie on our backs on the terrace, and look at the clouds. Most of them looked like dinosaurs to us. Some of them were imaginary. Sometimes during profound moments like these, we would ask each other this question.

“Tereko kabhi kabhi aisa nahin lagta, ki hum hain?” (Don’t you sometimes feel like, we are?”)

“Lagta hai. Bahut zyaada. (I do. A lot.)

“Hum hain. Par yaar, hum kaise hain?” (We are. But, how?”)

There was no answer. We both knew what we were feeling, but we couldn’t explain it any further. And we didn’t need to. It was an intense feeling of awareness. Of existence. The fact that we are alive. We are here. We are human beings with sense and feelings and free will.

For several years, at unexpected moments, we’d repeat this to each other. And we knew exactly what it meant. It was so easy to communicate. To understand. To connect.

Hum hain.

Little did I know that this feeling would only grow with time. That I would read articles and books about so many other people feeling it. That it would be so intricately discussed, debated and described by thinkers for so many years. That this would be my point of conversation with so many people, many of whom will not even pretend to understand. That this feeling would go and wedge itself in the core of my being, become my centre of gravity, determine the way I think and feel all the time. That I would feel intense consciousness at odd moments. That existentialism would become a way of life.

Though it’s not as easy to understand anymore, I still think of him when those moments come back to me.

Sitting on a swing.

Climbing a tree in the park.

Skating on the street outside.

Taking Cherry out for a walk.

Hum hain.

We are.

We are.

We are.