I Am The Maitreya

Epilogue in Prologue 

He would have made 20 this December, was 19, when he died. My mother must have cried her heart out, over the death of the son, she never had. Yes, that was my four legged brother; Pandu—a Tibetan Apso. He was my sibling, the one I grew up with—a furry one; he constitutes most of my childhood memories.   

If god were to grant my mother a wish, for her diligent puja every morning; after living through her children and her expectations from them, and disappointments, she would have asked to switch her biped son with that lovable qudra-ped mutt at a heart beat. And, by god, I wouldn’t have any qualms with her decision.  

After all, it was him, who bore the onus of being a responsible son, in the absence of biological one. He did a better job than I could have ever done. Gave company to my parents through their old age, in health and in sickness, he must have listened to my mother’s constant nagging without a single complain. He never argued. Unlike me, he didn’t have any priorities in life; he never had this urge to go overseas, and was always ecstatically happy to be around them—gave the finest example of unconditional love.  In fact, the only purpose of his life was to make my mother happy, like any good son would want. 

He would marry a bride, my mother would choose, without any questions, and take my mother’s side on sasu-buhari fights. He would have given them pleasure of playing with their grand-children. And, if my parents went blind of old age, he would put them on his shoulders, and taken them around to pilgrims, just like Srawan Kumar did. What mother wouldn’t want a son like that?  

And, if I were to entrust anyone to delegate my responsibility as a son, it would be him. 

Since, all the children have left them, including Pandu, they are emotionally devastated, to have any courage to bring another one home. They always say, ‘no dog is like Pandu, he is irreplaceable.’ 

They buried him in my court-yard under the Vokate ko bot, with a small ritual, but complex enough to comfort my mother, that it would ascend him to heaven. Mother tells me, this year vokate grew like no other years, best we ever had in fifteen years, that’s how old is that tree.  Usually, mother would give those vokate to neighbors and relatives for Bhai Tika. This year no one got any, she says, all are still hanging by the tree. For others, they might be any other stupid purposeless vokate, but for her, it’s her son, who she never had—PANDU reincarnated.

That inconspicuous tree at my court-yard has turned into a shrine, which blooms every year to remind– Golay family, that one of theirs’ lie there in serenity.  

How flowers on that vokate ko bot would bring joy and smile on my mother’s face every spring, yes, that’s the son my mother pines for.