A short story by Jeevak
"I've spent my entire life babysitting a grown man with talent for poetry and the emotional depth of a teaspoon." Devika sighed, her voiced laced with bitter wit. "Sure, he can string words into magic on the paper, but when it comes to being a good brother, husband or father—he's always on a short-circuit. How can someone be so stone-hearted to ignore and reject his new born son for months? She paused, her wrinkles getting more pronounced and eyes glistening. "Perhaps I enabled him, fed his ego. Look at him—still expecting applauses and batting away responsibilities." I held her soft, warm, time-worn hands and could feel her deep resentment through her watery eyes and parched lips. It's a strange ache, to watch your mother carry decades of disappointment, wearing it each day. Especially now, in the twilight of her long luminous struggle.
"Daadi, did you finish your tea?" This was the cheerful voice of Anjali, coming from the doorway.
She was one of those age care workers, who had not traded her soul for the clock-in card. She radiated a genuine warmth that put a question mark on 'tired disillusionment' that many carry in this profession. My mother looked at her and gave a reassuring smile — a brief reprieve from the haunted story of her older son Ravi that had begun few moments ago.
"Yes, Beta. I did. Thank you," my mother replied.
Anjali smiled back, collected the mug and left the room quietly. My mother gazed at me.
"Do you think God forgives a mother if she doesn't feel pain when her first born leaves this world?"
The question hit hard. I shifted in my seat.
"Amma, I don't think it works that way. You mourned him in your own way. For years. You just… stopped." I paused. "And maybe that's okay."
She looked out the window—the winter light filtered through sheer white curtains, casting soft shadows across her lined face. Outside, a magpie warbled.
"You know, that bird reminds me of Ravi," she said, nodding toward the window. "Always loud. Always demanding attention. Never quite landing anywhere for long."
I wanted to argue. Defend him. But I couldn't. Ravi had been that way — a kind of beautiful disaster. Talented, yes. Tortured, certainly. But also cruel in the small, grinding ways that siblings remember long after the world forgets.
The Brother
I was seven when Ravi first left home. He was sixteen. No goodbye, just a note on the kitchen table: *I'm not staying in this small-town prison*. My mother cried for weeks. My father didn't say much — he never did. But I remember the way he stopped humming in the mornings.
Ravi came back a few times over the years. Always broke. Always with a new story. Once, he showed up at 3 AM, drunk and weeping. Another time, he brought a woman — older, exhausted, visibly uncomfortable. They stayed two days. She never spoke to any of us.
He published his first book of poetry when I was twenty. The reviews were glowing. He sent us a signed copy. The inscription read: *To the family I was given, not the one I would have chosen*.
My mother framed it anyway.
"He was a sick man," she said now, her voice softer. "I know that. Depression, mania — whatever the doctors called it. But… it doesn't erase the hurt, does it?"
"No," I said. "It doesn't."
She looked at me with a tired smile. "You're a good son. Too good, maybe. You stayed. You married. You gave me Aditi." She gestured toward the door, where my teenage daughter was likely scrolling her phone in the hallway.
"I didn't do it to be good," I said quietly. "I just… didn't know how to leave."
She squeezed my hand. "Maybe that's the same thing."
The Poet
Ravi's funeral was small. Thirty people, maybe. Some old friends, a few literary types who eulogized him like he was Sylvia Plath. One woman cried so hard she had to leave mid-service. I'd never seen her before.
My mother sat stone-faced through it all.
Afterward, at the reception, someone asked her if she'd like to say a few words. She declined. Later, when we were alone, she said: "What would I say? That he was brilliant? Everyone knows that. That he was troubled? That's obvious. That I loved him? I did. But I'm tired of pretending it was enough."
It wasn't a question. It was a fact.
Now
She's been in aged care for six months now. The dementia comes and goes. Some days, she's sharp as ever. Other days, she thinks I'm my father. Once, she called me Ravi. That one stung.
Today is one of the clear days. And she's talking about him again. Not with anger this time. Just… exhaustion.
"You know what I regret most?" she said.
"What?"
"That I spent so much time hoping he'd change. Hoping he'd wake up one day and realize what he'd thrown away." She paused. "I should have just let him be. Loved him from a distance. Saved myself the heartbreak."
"That's hard to do," I said.
"Everything's hard," she said, her voice cracking slightly. "But I wasted so much energy on him. And now…" She gestured vaguely at the room, at herself. "Now I'm here. And he's gone. And it all feels so… pointless."
I wanted to tell her it wasn't pointless. That motherhood matters. That memory matters. But the words felt hollow.
So instead, I just sat with her.
Departure
That night, after I left the care facility, I drove to the beach. It was cold, windy. The kind of evening Ravi would have loved — dramatic, moody, suffused with melancholy.
I thought about the last time I saw him alive. It was three years ago. He was living in a share house in the inner city, writing sporadically, drinking heavily. I'd stopped by to drop off some money my mother had insisted I give him.
"She still thinks she can save you," I'd said, handing him the envelope.
He'd laughed—a bitter, hollow sound. "Tell her I'm beyond saving."
"I think she knows," I'd replied.
He'd looked at me then, really looked at me. And for a moment, I saw something I hadn't seen in years: vulnerability. Fear. Regret.
"I'm sorry," he'd said quietly.
"For what?"
"For being the brother you deserved better than."
I'd wanted to argue. To tell him it wasn't too late. That we could fix things. But I didn't believe it. And I think he knew.
So I just nodded. "Take care of yourself, Ravi."
He'd smiled—a sad, resigned smile. "I'll try."
Now
I stood on the beach, watching the waves crash against the shore. The wind stung my face. Somewhere in the distance, a seagull cried.
I thought about my mother's question: *Do you think God forgives a mother if she doesn't feel pain when her first born leaves this world?*
And I thought: Maybe God doesn't need to forgive her. Maybe she's already forgiven herself. Not because she stopped loving Ravi. But because she realized that love — especially the kind mothers give — doesn't always save people.
Sometimes, it just holds the space for them to fall.
And maybe that's enough.
I turned and walked back to my car. The sun had set completely now. The sky was dark, heavy with clouds. It looked like rain.
As I drove home, I thought about Aditi. About how she's nothing like Ravi — steady, kind, grounded. And I thought about how terrified I am that one day, she'll leave too. Not physically. But emotionally. The way children do when they grow up and realize their parents are just people.
And I wondered: Will I handle it better than my mother did?
Or will I, too, spend decades hoping for something that was never mine to hold?
Epilogue
My mother passed away six months later. Peacefully, they said. In her sleep.
At her funeral, I found a letter in her belongings. It was addressed to Ravi. Never sent.
Dear Ravi,
I forgive you. Not because you asked. But because I'm tired of carrying this weight.
I hope, wherever you are, you've found peace.
Love, Amma
I folded the letter carefully and placed it in my pocket.
That night, I drove back to the beach. The same one. The wind was just as cold, the waves just as loud.
I stood there for a long time, holding the letter.
And then, finally, I let it go.
The wind carried it out over the water, tumbling and twisting, until it disappeared into the dark.
I watched until I couldn't see it anymore.
And then I turned and walked away.
Because sometimes, the only way forward is to let the past drift out to sea.