Modern Slaves

My Brothers & Meera

I laughed and kissed her back. I loved her, more than anything. I thought she loved me too. I was wrong.

I asked her, "What do you think we are here for?" I wanted to know her opinion, her perspective, her worldview. I wanted to understand her, to connect with her, to share with her.She shrugged and said, "I don't know, nobody does." She was always a skeptic, a realist, a pragmatist. She never cared much for metaphysics, religion, or spirituality. She lived in the present, for the moment, for herself.

I asked her, "Do you believe in God?" I wondered if she had any faith, any hope, any trust. I searched for some sign, some clue, some hint.

She said, "I don't know." She was always agnostic, indifferent, uncertain. She never committed to any belief, any doctrine, any creed. She kept her options open, her mind free, her heart guarded.

I said, "I wish there was a God." I longed for some guidance, some comfort, some grace. I needed something, someone, to help me, to save me, to love me.

She said nothing. She looked away, her expression cold, her eyes distant. She'd already made up her mind, her decision, her plan. She left me the next day, without a word, without a reason, without a goodbye.

I gently tucked the photo album back under the pillow, its weight heavy with memories and emotions. With trembling hands, I wiped away the tears that cascaded down my cheeks, leaving salty trails in their wake. The ache in my heart compelled me to seek solace in the shared memories of my brother, to connect with someone who knew him intimately, and who loved him unconditionally.

My fingers instinctively reached for the familiar device, my lifeline to the past, to the echoes of his laughter and the warmth of his presence. Each digit dialed carried the weight of years of silence, of missed opportunities to bridge the growing chasm between us. I silently prayed that his number remained unchanged, a lifeline to the past that I was desperate to grasp.

With each ring, my heart pounded in anticipation, a cacophony of hope and fear swirling within me. Would he answer? Would he recognize the voice that trembled with regret and longing? Or would my call be met with the deafening silence of indifference, a stark reminder of the fractures that time had wrought?

"Hello?" His voice, once vibrant with youth and energy, now carried the weight of years gone by, the weariness of a life marked by loss and longing.

"Hari?" My voice wavered, the name a fragile lifeline tethering me to the past. "It's me. Akhil."The ensuing silence stretched like an eternity, each passing moment weighted with unspoken truths and unresolved emotions. I listened intently, the sound of his breaths a balm to my wounded soul, the rhythm of his heartbeat echoing the ache within my chest.

"Akhil?" His disbelief was palpable, a raw undercurrent that threatened to engulf us both

 "Is that you?"

"Yes, Hari. It's me. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

His response was a torrent of anger and pain, a searing indictment of my failures and shortcomings. Each accusation landed like a blow, the weight of his words a burden too heavy to bear.