My Brother PINTU

"Mar shathe ghumai (I sleep with Ma)...." was Pintu's reply, when I asked, where do you sleep these days. At first I didn’t get it. I asked again : "No I mean, where do you sleep these days ?" "Mar shaathe (with Ma)," he replied again. "What do you mean-I asked Pintu, my younger brother. "Everynight, Ma comes and sleeps beside me. I can feel her presence. Morning I just open the window and she leaves. I am telling you the truth," he was trying to convince me.
Our mother died on November 24, 2008. My brother is --"mentally retarded," so we say.
Since childhood, his life had revolved around Ma. When he was a kid, I had named him---Ma boleche (Ma said so). Whenever he wanted something, he would make Ma agree to his terms and then mount pressure on me and Baba. He would then say ---"Ma boleche."

Ma died and life moved on. I moved on. Three days after Ma expired, I was back in Delhi following the Mumbai terror attack. Baba was shattered and it showed. He would start crying everytime he thought of her or anybody mentioned Ma.
Nobody saw tears in Pintu's eyes. Pintu had no time to cry.

He gets up in the morning, makes tea for Baba, gives his medicine, cleans his urinal umpteenth time a day, puts on his socks for him, takes him to the bathroom, massages his feet, manages the house, speaks to our relatives (They keep pouring in hordes after Ma's death) and tells the servants what to do and how to go about things. Also if the maids don't come, Pintu is there to call them up. This boy, a mentally retard, has taken charge of the situation.

The day Ma died, we all cried, we all wept. I had not seen tears in Pintu's eyes. It was late in the night. I woke up to go the bathroom. Darkness had blend with that deafening silence. Then I heard someone sobbing. It was Pintu. After the world had mourned Ma's death, after all of us wept, howled, wailed and went off to sleep, this boy in that pitch darkness was sobbing quietly. There was no open display of his grief---Pintu cried silently. On seeing me getting up, he went quiet. He did not want to disturb us with his grief.

I never believed in rituals. I don't. Pintu shaved his head and was willing to perform all the 13-day rituals, being planned and dictated by our relatives, till I realised he was falling sick and I put an end to them. On the day of Ma's Shradh, Pintu had fever. If I was sitting and performing the last rites, Pintu stayed indoors.

I returned to Delhi to carry out the required duties of a journalist. I had no time.
Pintu and Baba clung to each other. Rather Baba clung to Pintu. He could not do without him. This 84-year-old man was perpetually seeking him out. "Pintu where are you," "Pintu give me this," Pintu my medicine,"..."Pintu, Pintu Pintu..." he would go on and on. And even in the nights Pintu would stay up with Baba, if need be.

Three days after Ma died, I was to catch a 6 am fight to Delhi. I got up at 4 in the morning and found Pintu in the kitchen. "What are you doing ?", I was surprised to seem him up at that hour. "Making tea for you," he smiled. I had that tea and left to catch my flight. Both Baba and Pintu came to see me off to that taxi stand. None of them can walk properly and they returned home holding on to each other.

A few days back, Baba was rushed to ICU. Pintu called me. I was in office. Baba is back now and Pintu sleeps on a sofa beside Baba's bed. "Oh it's fine," he said, when I asked whether he could sleep properly. On the night Ma died, her last words were---"aami uthte parchi na re ar. Tor ki hobe ( I cannot get up anymore. What will happen to you) ?" Ma died , thinking what will happen to Pintu, who will take care of this mentally retarded boy. Little did Ma know--- Pintu was going to take care of all.

No Pintu does not work, my 44-year-old handicap brother plays football with kids and takes care of our ailing father....