The Guilt

I was in the kitchen, cooking lunch, when some visitors came by our house. I warmly welcomed them in and quickly offered a nice cup of tea with cookies and refreshments. Minutes went on, chatting and laughing, and with the same motion, I attended to a nibbling biscuit while moving about back and forth between the kitchen and our conversational merriment.
Suddenly I heard sound of footsteps rushing through the porch. I could see my husband approaching towards the kitchen. I was still smiling at that joke but my husband was very grave. He took me aside. I assumed that he might want to communicate something about my pregnancy as I was 4 months pregnant. He whispered with heavy voice " MANAV took his life."
It took me some time to digest the shock. I was flustered, my legs started shuddering, my vision became blur. I could not picture him dangling to the ceiling fan. Although my husband told me that he is no more, I still had the audacity to ask him " Is he fine?"
I was out of my wits. My in- laws assembled to go to my paternal house. All I could hear from the guests was " you are pregnant, don't look at your dead brothers face, it can affect the unborn in your womb". I was traumatized by the miserable news that I could not became furious at them although now I am.
I wept and cried during the way to my house. Throughout this route every other member sitting in car was dazed, deaf and dumb who did not even tried to soothe me. When reached in the driveway of my house, I could hear the wailing of my mother and other women.
My mother clasped me to her chest, murmuring words while crying, which today elude my memory. I only remember the deluge of tears that blurred my vision. Yet, even after crying copiously, a tightness gripped my throat and just would not go.
I wanted to share everything with my little brother, to just open up to him. But all I could see was him—still sitting on the bed shakingly, between relatives. He had come just an hour before from the hospital, where he had gone because of a seizure caused by seeing our older brother's lifeless body, torn apart with blood all over, in his face. The rope he hanged himself from had torn apart due to the weight of his body.
What a handsome boy he was- 6.1" height, a muscular hunk, a physiotherapist, a bodybuilder and a weightlifter.
I sat near his bed but couldn't cry, even though my younger sibling was waiting for me to embrace him so that he could vent his heart out about this ill-fated and unforgettable incident.
My mother was unable to recognize us at that time. All we had was our father—an ex-army man who was pretending to be tough and answering the police's questions. In cases of suicide, the police often try to blame the deceased's family, but my grandfather and my husband, being in politics, handled it well. The weight of my beloved brother's body necessitated the effort of ten men to handle.
The authorities took his body for postmortem examination. My mother, who was in shock, was inconsolable and fought with the police out of desperation not to have his body taken away for examination. She pleaded, wailing, "Do not take him to have his body cut when his soul is already gone," but none of this did any good; nobody came to her aid, neither the police nor the people standing by. I sat in a room reserved for mourning, not allowed to see the face of my brother who was lifeless. The neighbours offered me food, but my throat was so constricted that I could not swallow a morsel.
Seeing my mother in such a distraught condition was pitiful. My younger sister, who was sixteen at the time, really acted maturely, with perfect control over everyone around her. Though at a very tender age, she took it graciously; it showed maturity that was way beyond her age. It was evident that my sweet little sister was shouldering a burden of pain. The visitors went in and out, offering their condolences and mourning the loss of such a young life. I wasn't allowed to cry, fearing it might affect the unborn baby in my womb. My dad, showing exterior strength, was shattered inside after losing his firstborn. The next day they returned his body, all nicely wrapped up like you see in the movies. My mother and siblings were trying to lift his body off the funeral bier; it was forcefully taken away for the final rites. The whole family was in a deep state of mourning. I was very ill and had a high fever, but I stayed around until his last ceremony, which was 11 days later. I did not have the guts to speak with my mother, brother, or anyone as I thought that they might get panic attacks or fits.
I was suppressing emotions, bottling them up and choking, till they hurt. That tragedy shook my family real hard—my grandfather became bedridden, and mom developed diabetes. Now, we avoid watching my wedding videos because to see my sweet brother in those videos who's no longer with us brings no joy or excitement.
Even after many years, I don't have the guts to talk about him. It took much strength to pen down these words, yet much is left unsaid, unresolved.
I carry in my heart the weight of not bidding him a proper farewell, wondering why I believed those relatives who claimed that seeing his face for the last time could harm my baby.
What if this guilt is affecting my health, my mind, and my heart? Now, I wish I had the guts to revolt against the dictates of these insignificant people. I could have lived more peacefully.

Talwinder Kaur
16.05.2024