My poster brother

Praful, yes, that was his name.

In little towns, it's not the obvious that you think of, when you see the opposite gender. There are other relationships that get forged between strangers. Uncles, aunts, brothers and sisters. Without the familiarity of blood, without the common blood of family.

To Praful, I was his little sister. I remember meeting him when we waited by a dusty road for a bus to take us to a little village, where not many buses go. I was tired, hungry and put all my weight on one foot as I clung to mom's hand. I looked at mom and she knew I wouldn't stand much longer. As she looked around helplessly, Praful appeared before us and smiled. "Hi, you remember me?"

Mom says "Not really."

"I was at your place last month. Sir helped me out of jail."

Dad's a lawyer and in insurgency laden Assam, it was a matter of pride for young men to have been to jail. Dad would bail these guys out before they were tortured beyond recognition. At any given time, the house was filled with hungry and hurt boys, who mom fed and dad sent home.

And Praful was one of them.

That day at the bus stop, he took one look at me and smiled. The next moment, a car appeared and I was bundled in with mom. We reached the village, safe and sound. And after that, I began to recognize Praful as he appeared miraculously on dusty roads and rescued us. And sometimes, dead in the night, when he came to ask dad to bail out more of his friends before the night got over. A night in jail was not good news. The frustrated army pummeled the poor boys out of shape.

Praful was especially fond of me. One day, he told mom about his little sister who died. She was a mirror image of me. And thereafter I rode on the sentiments and memories of a brother's love for his dead sister. When I went to college, Praful often landed up at the hostel to take me and friends out for lunch, unexpected but well appreciated. I particularly remember the little strawberry shaped sweets he left for me at the hostel. All of us gazed and wondered if they were real. (We had not seen strawberries before.) We licked the colour off before sucking on them. They were delicious.

Sometimes there were long gaps in between his visits. I mentioned to mom before my exams, that I hadn't seen Praful in a long time. Mom said he was missing. "Okay, tell him to come see me."

I got off the bus after a 10 hour journey. Stretched. Glad to be home after my exams. As I rode home, I was hit by posters all over town screaming, "WHERE IS PRAFUL?" I looked at his smiling face on the poster and my heart stopped. At home, I sprinted up, breathless and yelled at mom, "What are these posters? Where is Praful-da?"

"Sit, you must be tired. I'll get you something to eat."

"No. Tell me first!"

"Praful was picked up and before anyone could go after him, they killed him secretly."

"What do you mean 'killed him'? WHY DIDN'T YOU TELL ME BEFORE?"

"You were giving your exams. And what could you have done, anyways."

"So why the posters? They kill so many everyday!"

"They didn't intend to kill Praful. He was tortured inhumanly and he died."

"And...?"

"Then they denied having ever taken him and to destroy evidence, cut up his tortured body into pieces and burnt it in the jungle."

"And how do we know all this?"

"The guy captured with Praful was alive and made to witness everything as a lesson. Three week later he escaped when a drunk guard was on duty. Now, the truth is out and the people want the government to answer 'where is Praful?'"

I thought of his sad brown eyes and his curly mop over his forehead. He was smiling at me from the posters.

Over 13 years have passed. They have stopped asking "where is Praful?" I haven't.

Come home, Praful...