I lost my brother
I lost my brother
How a boy lost and found his kid brother
Iwas in high school at St Benedict’s College. Being the eldest child in the family came with serious responsibilities. My kid brother, Rohitha, was eight years old. In the mornings, I was assigned to drop him at his school, St. Anthony’s College. After dropping him off safely at his school, I travelled to my school in a different direction, a distance of seven kilometres.
The trip to drop my brother off involved taking two buses, interchanging at a junction to a second bus. Jostling with adult passengers, we both took this complex travel journey every day on a crowded route.
Buses were always full. Full of passengers, many buses did not stop at our stop. When the occasional bus stopped, people rushed to enter from both exits, front and back, willy-nilly. Exits had no doors. Buses would leave while passengers were getting off and getting in. Buses did not wait for anyone, so people got off and got on pretty quickly. People travelled on the footboards on the steps, a dangerous activity when there were no doors. The safety of the passengers was not a concept for the bus drivers. Travelling on a bus was a skill, and it was not for the faint-hearted.
On a morning in 1971, we both were at the bus halt, waiting to pounce on a bus. Buses were rare, and when they turned up were full as always. A bus stopped, but it was packed. We could not get in from the back entry. The two of us had mastered various tactics to enter a bus, the only way to get to a destination. My brother got in from the front exit while I got in from the back door. The bus took off. I could not get closer to my brother on the jampacked bus. Despite my best efforts to go near him, I was stuck at the rear. The bus rolled on at full capacity. I could not see him inside the bus, with no room to move toward him. We remained far apart at the opposite ends until the bus stopped at the interchange, a distance of about four kilometres.
I got off from the back exit at the bus interchange. The bus was rearing to take off. But my brother did not get down from the front door. So when I ran to the front door from the roadside, the bus sped off with him inside it.
Oh my God! Where’s my kid brother? As the bus disappeared, my world fell apart in split seconds.
I thought I would never meet him again. This was a terrible, scary experience. My little brother was only eight years old. Was he crying without me? Protecting him was my responsibility. The thought that I had lost him forever was frightening. I wondered how I would face my parents ever again without him. I felt that I failed in my duty to protect my little brother. They gave me a simple thing to do, and I screwed it up royally.
I immediately prayed and pleaded with God to help me find him. I thought of things I had done to deserve my loss. I started bargaining with God. My faith was Catholic, and confession was in my blood. Guilt was in my DNA. Was this my punishment for my sins? I promised God that I would never masturbate again if he helped me to find him.
Out of desperation, I hailed a taxi, a Morris Minor, a yellow and black car that plied on the road. I knew very well that I had no money to pay the fare. Desperation leads to extraordinary actions. It was my only chance to catch up with the bus and hunt for my brother. I had no time to waste. I got into the taxi’s passenger seat without any fear. I had nothing more to lose. I asked the taxi driver to follow the vanishing bus. He followed it straight away in pursuit. Paying the taxi driver was not foremost in my mind. I could see the taxi meter running. Trailing behind the bus, I told the taxi driver I had no money to pay him. The taxi driver immediately recognised my desperation, turned off the and kept driving. He probably had kids my age of his own and understood my plight.
The taxi caught up with the bus after a short pursuit. The good Samaritan, the taxi driver, was kind enough to waive the fare, knowing I had no means to pay him. He wanted me to go and get my brother. I boarded the runaway bus straight away, exiting the taxi. I searched the whole bus. Alas! he was not in it. I talked to the bus conductor, and he had no idea of a lost kid. Oh my God! Has someone kidnapped him? Would I never see him again? I reiterated my promise to God not to wank again. This was my punishment for being a bad boy.
I got off the bus at the next stop, distressed, not knowing what to do next.
In 1971, there was no 911 to call. No mobile phone to call my father. I was alone. I needed to find my brother somehow with my wit and whatever it took me.
It was a time for quick thinking despite my anguish. Straight thinking was what I had to do. I decided to go to my brother’s school and check whether he was safe there. Fortunately, I had a school season bus ticket and some spare coins to ply the school routes. I reached his school by taking a bus. I ran to his class from the bus stop hoping and praying that he was in his class. Hope was my only hope.
To my utter delight, my brother was there, unaffected, in his usual calm self, as if nothing had happened. Alleluiah, God has kept his bargain. My brother was not swayed. Nothing bothered him. I was overjoyed at finding my kid brother, whom I thought had lost forever, so I wanted to hug him. Sri Lankans as a nation do not embrace their loved ones in public. Instead, I gave him a shoulder hug by grabbing his shoulder. I was so happy that I gave him all my pocket money to show my affection. It was only 25 cents, a lot of pocket money then. With his bus exit blocked by people, he could not get to the exit door in time. He got off at the next bus stop and walked back to the usual bus interchange. Then he took his second bus to his school all by himself. As an eight-year-old boy, it was a wise and brave move — a great show of independence from a young age.
I was not scared to come home that day after school. After all, my bargain with God had worked. I was in seventh heaven. I hugged my kid brother that day at home.
I must admit that it did not take long for me to break my promise to God. It was a deal that was impossible to keep.
Where are the characters of my story today:
The hero of this story, Rohitha, my brother, lives in Canada. He, too, pursued his dreams like his elder brother. He was a gifted student, did his PhD in his twenties and is a well-known researcher and scientist in electrical power engineering.
The other hero is the unnamed, unsung, unselfish taxi driver. He helped a young boy to find his lost brother. So many people, strangers like him, make this world a good place.
Unfortunately, some fifty years later, commuter buses are still the same in Sri Lanka.
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