We sat in the bus stop. We weren’t waiting for any bus in particular. It seemed like a nice place to sit. That was it. He was animatedly talking about something that happened during his training days. I was half listening and was silently hoping that this moment would never end. I don’t remember what our conversation was like. What I do remember is this: He was wearing a warm jacket with a nice hood to cover his head. He never used it, though. The collar was pulled up like a rebellious teen. His shiny hair tumbled from the parting on the right side. The intriguing scar on his left cheek captured shadows from the winter sun. His playful eyes were in the throes of making a really interesting conversation. Narrating an incident that took place long back…
It was cold and I slipped my hands into his pocket, cursing ladies sweaters without pockets. What use are those? We linked our fingers and stood in the bus stop. With me listening to his incessant chatter. It normally is the other way round. I talk he listens. His warm hands held mine just like they used to, ever since I can remember. The gap of years between us never stopped us from being close friends. It was a friendship that sprung and flourished with time. It is a friendship I wouldn’t trade for anything else in this world.
I must be exceptionally lucky to have a brother like him. People often say that it’s a pity we can’t choose our family. I beg to differ.
I love you, Chettan. I cherish you.