Inspired by a line of Peter Drucker.

I am a war veteran, I am 23 years old. I have a bullet hole in my left thigh and a scar in my mind. My mother never forgets to remind me that the hole will heal; she is silent about the scar. The story is not about me or about the ongoing war. I am only the narrator, not the omnipotent or the omnipresent one. Just a situational one, no theories of “centre”, “collective unconsciousness” or the “author’s death” cast an influence on my narration.

He is 17 years, 11 months and 29 days. One day away from being an adult. He is my brother. This is his story.

He is very excited. Why shouldn’t he be? He no longer will be a kid. He can do so many things; things which he was unable to and not permitted to do. In his own words, he is now, “...a bird ready to fly and challenge the sky.”

He is fond of me. No, that does not explain his feelings towards me. He idolises me. It is a very strange emotion to deal with. The society keeps me away because I am an iconoclast.

I am his icon. “Fate must have studied literature. How else could it give such a valid example for the concept of irony?

He wants to do everything that I have done. “Big brother” to him, does not bring the Orwellian images of terror. [He confessed this to me, after I gifted him Orwell’s 1984]. Our family isn’t very rich. His demands had to pass through the ‘two layer’ truth test advocated by our father.Can the demand be satisfied with present resources? Is it the right time to satisfy?

I had my privileges. Being the eldest son was definitely the best. Unfortunately he had very few privileges compared to me. [Yet, I was his icon]. He referred to my father’s truth tests as, The left over condition. If a demand could be met (not satisfied) with leftovers. The gestation period. [I had objected to the adverb. Things happening at the right time, according to my father.

His eagerness of becoming an adult is quite palpable, I believe. To support his restlessness I should probably recount few of the key events that fuelled his desire to become an adult. He played by rules, never once breaking the word taken from him.

He wanted to go to the trip that his friend has planned. It was like the “motorcycle diaries” that he love so much. Everybody had given their consent. He had his luggage ready and was ready to leave. My father wanted him to take my grandmother’s blessings, he went there. The trip went ahead without him. Granny refused to let him go until he was 18.

Few months later or earlier, I am not sure; he went to our father and asked for a two wheeler. Father put his demand under the “two condition” test. He was permitted to use my bicycle when he would be 18, for his new college- Right time.

He went to the house of the man who lives at the end of our street and asked his permission to take his daughter to watch ‘The Tempest’. The daughter was eager but her father didn’t share the same eagerness. So he came back with a one line reply. “You are still a kid. Not even 18.”

It was the same, when he went to the local pub. The bartender was happily serving martinis- dry, shaken and cocktails to his last bench classmates but he was denied champagne to celebrate his scholarship.

He was never allowed to get our mother a gift on her birth day. She used to remind him well in advance that he was still a kid and not an adult; he should save money for himself. He felt good only after Mother promised him that she would demand many things from him once he grows up to be an adult.

Strange is the way the plot of our life is written. We await the climax and the anti climax with the same eagerness knowing nothing of the surprise it has in store for us.

He celebrated his eighteenth birth day, amidst an anti- air- raid siren. The war has been going on for more than three months in our city and for over a year at our Border. Nobody really cared about the siren, not us, today at least.

Father showed him a receipt of a new cycle which was booked in his name.

Mother demanded that she should have a cashmere sweater for this year’s thanks giving.

The pretty girl’s father accepted the cake he offered and in turn gave him a bottle of wine.

He, along with his friends went to the local pub which opened only during the day (as its lights would give away the location and attract air-raids) and had scotch and whiskey. The bar owner served champagne to him and declared it to be on the house.

Night was heavy, with dreams rolled into it. It inched slowly towards the day. When it met Day, it seems Night whispered about how much important the Day was.

Day arrived, true to the anticipation, with a clear sky, cool breeze, sun shine- everything was so perfect. He was up running around like mercury just released from its glass vial.

It was then that the post man came. I was the one who received the letter. It was to my father, had a state seal embossed and was inscribed URGENT. I called out to father. He was surprised and asked me to read it. I opened the envelope. My fingers started trembling. I dropped the letter.

I called out for him. Mother said he had gone for a bath. There was a gush of wind and the letter was preparing to take off along with it. Today and yesterday had put so much of enthusiasm in me that I pushed my wheelchair towards the letter, manoeuvred my wheelchair, pushed my toes and stood on my feet, bent down and retrieved the letter. All this happened in a second. I wanted to tell him that I stood up on my feet after three months.

Yet the letter seemed important and hence, I opened it. It read, “...Mr...your son, Mr...has reached the age of eighteen and is henceforth summoned to join the armed forces in ongoing war against the enemies...”

I am not sure if I will ever stand again.

“To grow up was to be sent to the Border” – Peter Drucker