By Sujatha Balasubramanian

Afterwards, they said that Manohar was affected the most. His eyes had turned red with weeping and one could hardly get a coherent word from him. Blood, after all, they said, is thicker than water, and the elder brother had almost been like a father to him. Surprising, how Mother had stood up to it all, people whispered. It was she who had taken charge of the situation, made arrangements for the funeral, sent for the priests. The old lady is made of sterling stuff, they said, there are not many like her these days. It is not everyone who can remain unperturbed when the eldest son falls down dead, literally at one’s feet.

Manohar rarely visited his brother Krishna. The couple of miles that separated them always seemed an unbridgeable chasm to Manohar, the nagging thought at the back of his mind being, what will Mother think if I visit Krishna often. When Krishna had left home ten years ago it was as if there had never been an elder son in the house. Not that Mother had staged any scenes, she was simply not that sort of a person. In fact, whenever Krishna came over to pay his duty calls, she treated him courteously but distantly enquiring after his health and offering him coffee. But never, never once did she did she press him to stay when he got up to leave. Many times, Manohar wondered what went on behind that implacable facade. But the heavy jowled face with its steely eyes, the tall, almost obese body perpetually clad in red silk was so much a figure of awe to Manohar that it was like questioning the thinking process of God.

What prompted Manohar to visit Krishna that evening was not merely a mood of depression. It was a remark by one of his colleagues at the bank.

“I met your brother Krishna at the club last night,” said this friend. “A jolly fellow. Not very much like you, is he?” he asked glancing at Manohar. “Very entertaining. He kept us laughing for hours with his jokes.” Manohar’s sunken eyes looked into his. “Don’t you ever go to the club?” asked the man curiously.

“Er — no, not much time you know – the wife and family –” Manohar’s voice trailed into an uneasy silence. “Well, I suppose it makes a difference, his being a bachelor” replied the friend and deftly changed the subject.

Manohar’s evenings had a set pattern about them. His job at the bank had fixed hours and he was back home punctually by 5:30 driving his tiny old Morris at an incredibly slow pace through the crowded roads. After a snack and coffee, he read to his mother – tidbits from the paper, stories from the magazines and occasionally a verse from the Ramayana or Gita which Mother would explain to him carefully. A half-hour for his evening prayers and he would be ready for dinner at eight. Twice a week he escorted Mother to the temple and sometimes on Sundays, his wife Kamala would come to him and say “Mother says, why don’t we go to a picture.” He would collect his brood and pile into the car, waving to his mother with a tringe of conscience.

Krishna was not in his flat when Manohar went there so he decided to wait. He chose the smallest chair in the room, pulled it to a corner and sat tensely at the edge of it. The sitting room which opened out into a smaller bedroom on the left, was quite untidy. Papers and books were strewn all over, a checked woollen coat and a tie were draped over the armchair, a couple of glasses half-filled with water stood on the desk. Manohar looked around with fascination. Everything in that small place had the power to lay a hypnotic spell over him. The crumpled packet of cigarettes, the stack of colourful paperbacks, all appeared to belong to an exotic, foreign world. Wistfully, he leaned forward to touch the rough fabric of the sports jacket.

“Is it Manohar? What a surprise. It is good to see you after such a long time.” Krishna’s voice was strong and breezy, in tune with his tall and well-proportioned frame. It was said that he took after this mother while Manohar was the spitting image of his father, small made and thin almost to the point of emaciation. Krishna called for coffee, discarded his coat and tie in the bedroom and washed his face all in a matter of seconds. He turned the armchair to face his brother and settled himself comfortably in it. The coffee was watery and too sweet but Manohar sipped it out of the cup with relish. “How is everything at the bank?” asked Krishna lighting a cigarette. The smoke drifted towards Manohar and his sniffed appreciatively. “Things are as usual,” he said with a shrug of his bony shoulders. “No chance of a raise?” asked Krishna sympathetically. “Oh! No, nothing of that sort,” Manohar sounded horrified at the mere thought of a promotion. His brother laughed. “You haven’t changed a bit, Manohar, not even by a hair’s breadth since I came over here ten years ago. Have you ever taken a long look at yourself in the mirror? You could be anywhere between twenty five and fifty five! Don’t you ever wish that something new would happen to you? Don’t you want to go ahead and meet life instead of hiding behind a woman’s saree?” Krishna stopped abruptly.

After a while he said “Sometimes when I wake up in the morning I am surprised to find myself free. When I see that hunted look in your eyes, I tell myself, there but for the grace of God, go I.”

Manohar stirred uncomfortably in his small chair. “That is no way to talk. After all, she has done so much for us.”

“Done for us?” repeated Krishna. “Yes, she has done everything for us. Brought us up single-handed when our father died early, gave us a good education. We were too small to understand finances and she managed everything.” He got up and thumped the table. “But don’t you see, she enjoyed doing it; enjoyed the power it gave her over us; enjoyed getting you married to a girl of her choice, a mousy little thing who wouldn’t raise her voice under any circumstances. And the children – three little mice –“

The telephone rang and Krishna broke it off to answer it. “Hello, Thomas? What have you got for Sunday? Oh! I thought the weight would be too much for him. Sixes, you say? Anyways, we’ll meet on the course. I am flying over on Sunday morning. Good bye.” He turned to Manohar who was sitting perfectly still, poised like a terrier on a trail. “Tell me, Manohar, when did you last take a holiday? No, I don’t mean a yatra with your retinue, a real holiday with your wife, say to Bangalore or Mysore.” Manohar did not answer and Krishna went on. “I know you can’t leave Mother alone.”

“But what can I do?” cried Manohar, “I don’t want to hurt her.”

Krishna sighed. “Heaven knows. I am grateful too, really grateful to her for bringing us up and keeping things going when there was no one to help, or advise. But,” his voice thickened, “I’ll be damned if I’m going to lay my entire life at her feet. I’d keep her with me anytime, give her all that money can buy, but I am not prepared to account to her for every minute of my day. A man can live but once Manohar. I only wish you could live as you please, before it is too late.”

“I am afraid,” said Manohar, “don’t ask me why.” His voice was low and tremulous. “If I could get away like you I shall be all right. Couldn’t you —.” His beseeching eyes followed Krishna as he walked across to the cupboard and brought out a bottle of whiskey. Krishna poured some into a glass and added a little water. “Do you want me to come over and talk to her?” asked Krishna abruptly. Manohar nodded miserably. There was silence in the room as Krishna sipped his drink. Manohar’s eyes fastened on the glass like rivets. The amber liquid appeared to reflect a thousand lights, all that was dreamt of and never realized. His lips parted with anticipation. The taste of that stuff, how would it be? He could not for the life of him imagine it.

Krishna poured himself another and pushed the bottle towards his brother. “Help yourself,” he said. Krishna’s hands shook nervously as he splashed a little whiskey into his glass. It tasted like nothing he had ever drunk before. “It may be my only chance. Already, perhaps, it is too late for me,” he whispered. Krishna put on his coat.

They got out of the car and walked up the drive, Manohar lagged behind. “I think —,” he began hesitantly. “Don’t think, act,” snapped Krishna leading the way. His gait was curiously steady, his knock on the door was loud and demanding. Mother opened the door and stood silhouetted, solid and erect like a gigantic monolith, her eyes betraying no surprise at the sight of the pair of them. “Mother,” said Krishna. His fact contorted for a second and suddenly, he was sick, all over Mother’s bare feet. Before she could draw her feet away in disgust, Krishna fell across them like a log, dead even before he touched the ground. Just for a moment, Mother’s probing, questioning eyes met Manohar’s faltering gaze. Then they veiled over with customary indifference.