Half Brothers

                                        

                                         The nobleman's death by anonymous

As of now, my reader(s) (I doubt if any exists) must have known that I am a collector of stories. The story, narrated to me by the ruined nobleman himself, is published in the understanding that the identities of the characters involved remain secret. What I can tell you is at the prime of his age, he was unexampled in entire Nepal in terms of power, pelf and persona.

He is my half-brother—a living remainder of my silly father’s romance with a kitchen maid. I never thought it was “love”, for any woman would have opened her petticoat for a man like my father and that maid was fortunate to extract a son out of their dalliance.
                The bastard boy looked exactly like my father. God knows what my father saw in those two, but he even gave them a parcel of our farm in Lainchaur. My dear mother never openly objected to this relationship, as it was common for powerful men to have mistresses. What worried her was my silly father’s infatuation with the ghastly maid and her boy that reminded her of the shallowness of her marriage.  Romantic love between aristocratic couples was a rare phenomenon, so like countless other noblewomen before her, she concealed the agony in the veil of elegance. As for me, I was then studying in Dehradun and hardly saw the maid and her boy.
                I was living the life of a Casanova in Dehradun. Everything was fine until my silly father died from a silly fever. I had to return to Kathmandu for the funeral. At the funeral I saw the kitchen maid and her son, who were crying so irritatingly loud that I had an urge of punching their faces. For people like them, occasions such as funerals were an excellent way to show their connection to prestigious families like ours. My poor mother, on the other hand, was more enraged than bereaved because my silly father had left the maid and her son a generous sum of money in his will. It was not that we did not have money— we had plenty of it— but still, how could she reward that vile woman who had robbed her of her husband’s love? Finally, after eight days, my mother got our lawyer to bend the terms of the will to her wish, and she had some relief.
                After I inherited our immense fortune, I was perhaps the richest nobleman in Nepal. I don’t think even the Crown Prince received half the marriage proposals I received, but maintaining that level of prestige is a daunting task. To ensure my prestige was unrivalled, I exhibited my wealth in an unrivalled way. After all, spending money was my one true talent. For twenty years, money flowed like water.
                                                               ***
                Meanwhile, I occasionally saw my half-brother who was in the garment business now. At weddings and family gatherings, he supervised the work while we were busy celebrating. I thanked him sometimes but it was his responsibility, for my father had given him a proud and prestigious family name.
                While I was spending a great portion of my family fortune, my half-brother had earned a sizeable fortune himself. The bastard’s wealth was mocking my noble blood, and finally it was intolerable for me. I was convinced to make money, but in a gentlemanly way. One day, I came in contact with an investment firm, run by promising young men, which had a scheme that guaranteed double return within a year. It was a great opportunity; I would be earning without bending my back in ungentlemanly manner. I mortgaged my mansion and the remaining lands, and handed them the money swiftly. I made sure no one knew a word of the contact as I did not want anyone to double their millions just by signing some papers.
                My promising young men, however, had disappeared into the thin air, and as months passed it was not my investment that were doubling, it was my debt. Bank officials knocked my door every often to remind me of ultimatums and deadlines. My shame and patience crossed the limits, and all of a sudden I was in the doorsteps of my most trusted friends, but the vultures who feasted in my grand buffets and emptied the casks my choicest wines turned me down. Some even refused to recognize me; I was now a subject of mockery. But I never let my half-brother know of it, for I was ashamed—deeply ashamed of my jealousy.
                                                             ***
                A week ago, a bank official broke in my mansion with police. He handed me a notice that I was to vacate the property in a week’s time. He pasted the same paper in the door.
                “But Officer, don’t you know what kind of person I am? You certainly know my situation; I’ve been tricked. Please try to understand my situation.”
                “With all due respect sir, you are an idiot who has gambled his money foolishly.” He said with a sardonic smile.
                I was infuriated. “How dare you! You son of a peasant, my grandfather owned your office building as well as the surrounding areas.”
                “And now we own your house.” He said and started leaving.                               “You know, the king is related to me.” I shouted at his back.
                “Then why don’t you go to him?” He shouted back with a crack of laughter.                                                              
                My family had abandoned me; my friends had turned me down; even this scum officer had gone so far as to insult me, why on the earth would the king help me? The notice pasted on the door implied that I was formally a beggar now, a beggar! The rotating sky, the half open gate, and a sharp pain in the chest are the last thing I remember.
                                                               ***

                I find myself in a cosy bed. As I wake up, I am frightened to find my silly father sitting beside me! Was I really dead? I must be in heaven because I’m sure my silly father would have found a place in heaven. Ah! What would he say of me? What am I to say if my great ancestors question me about their wealth, their family name? Anticipating all this, I begin to cry madly enough to awaken my silly father. 
                “What’s the matter, Dai? Are you alright?” It was not my silly father; instead it was the testimonial of his love: my half-brother. I am relieved that I wouldn’t be facing the inquisition immediately, but I’m embarrassed that I’m still alive.

                I nod my head, simply because I don’t have anything to say.  He was beside me when I was a millionaire; he is beside me when I am a tramp. He prays for my recovery, resents that I did not trust him enough to entrust my situation, and comforts me that the home minister has assured him to look after my case. I never wanted to share my joy with him, and now he wants to share my sorrow. Poor lad, he offers me everything, and for the first time in my life, I want to give him something —but alas! I have nothing; if only I had a plot of my silly father’s land left… all this pinches me. After all, I now know who the bastard is.

           Mustering all my courage, and defeating my shame, I ask, “Would you give me Daagbatti[i]?”
          “Why do you say such things, Dai?” he says fighting back his tears.
           “Because you are my half-brother.”   

                                                           

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[i] Daagbatti- The torch/fire that burns the dead body, usually given by the nearest living male relative.