My little brother Minu. He's the youngest of us three siblings; his age got stuck at nine. My older sibling and I do reasonably well in our studies, but Minu turned out to be quite the hopeless type. Except for academics, he loves doing everything else with perfect precision.
When he was very small, my sibling and I would fight over who got to hold him. Even if he cried just a little, our hearts would flutter before Mother's did. Mother is a college teacher, Father a government employee. Because both parents are highly educated, studies held the topmost place in our family. Wrestling with math, English, and science was the inevitable reality of our household. You could do whatever you wanted as long as you kept up with your studies—but you could never distance yourself from learning.
I was in seventh grade when Minu was born. Such a tiny, cherubic baby. Just like a round little doll. Our days and nights were consumed with caring for him.
Years rolled by, Minu grew bigger. I noticed that as he grew, his intense fascination with drawing only intensified. Whenever he got the chance, he'd draw with whatever he could find—a pen, a pencil, anything within reach. Seeing this, Mother gave him five boxes of colored pencils for his fifth birthday.
Getting those pencil boxes in his hands, Minu danced with joy, almost beside himself with happiness. Not the big cake, not the fancy clothes, not the expensive chocolates—all of Minu's joy seemed to be contained in those five boxes of colored pencils!
Then months passed. I saw that Minu spent twenty-four hours a day, day and night, absorbed in drawing and coloring. His age crossed five, but he had absolutely no interest in studies. Being the youngest, he was everyone's darling—we didn't scold him much or lay a hand on him.
The moment we sat him down to study, Minu would start wailing like he was dying. Though he'd spend the whole day in rowdy joy and happiness, when evening approached, it was as if Minu's very soul was departing! There wasn't a single evening when he didn't scream and cry when made to study. Come morning, he'd pull some neighbor's child's hair or bite a chunk of flesh from another kid's arm! Today he'd break something at this house, tomorrow something at that house. There wasn't a single thing in our home that Minu hadn't broken. If he went to play with any child, within ten minutes there'd be complaints against Minu. The moment he left the house, he'd create some mishap or other. His mischief made Mother, Father, and all of us thoroughly fed up and irritated.
As days passed, Minu's wildness only increased. Then we were forced to beat him when we sat him down to study. I'd see that however long we'd cane him, he'd scream and cry for exactly that long. The moment he could close the book, what laughter would burst from Minu! As if he'd conquered the entire world! Everyone was fed up with this behavior of his.
Years rolled by and Minu reached eight.
Due to time's demands, we all began to grow cruel. From morning till evening, he was being tied to the study table. Along with our teaching, Father also began sitting with Minu to make him study. Father had a very quick temper, so Minu's back was always under the cane. And out of all this irritation, we too started beating him daily.
When Minu was nine, we all embarked on a mission to make him human. Father got him admitted to school. All his colored pencils were confiscated.
I noticed we no longer had the same closeness with Minu as before. As days passed, Minu seemed to be drifting further and further away from us!
After his colored pencils were taken away, Minu seemed to grow up in an instant! His restlessness diminished. He became quieter and calmer than before. He no longer laughed with that tinkling sound like he used to. When made to study, even after getting severe beatings, Minu no longer screamed and cried. Before, when Father beat him, he'd run to us; when we beat him, he'd run to Mother and Father. Now Minu no longer fled to anyone—he'd just sit there in one place with his head bowed low. When he couldn't manage his studies, even after getting caned, he'd cry quietly with his head down. Big drops of tears would fall steadily to the ground. What a strangely obedient boy he'd become! Excessive obedience never gives birth to anything good.
That Thursday, Minu returned from school. After coming back from school, he didn't come out of his room even once. Going to his room, I found him lying curled up under the quilt. I touched his body—he was burning with fever. When I called him awake, I saw him vomit violently. I quickly called Father and we rushed him to the hospital in an ambulance.
Minu's head was pressed against my chest. His body was hot as a blazing sun. After a while, with great difficulty, he lifted his head, opened his eyes, and said in an unclear, hazy, slurred voice, "Sister, tomorrow is Friday, isn't it? I won't have to go to school, right? Don't make me study today, okay?"
I saw in his pain-filled eyes the joy of the next day's school holiday, and an intense longing not to be made to study that day. Seeing such longing in my little brother burning with fever, my heart lurched. I bit my lips hard and pressed his head tightly against my chest. I realized that tears were falling from my eyes like water from a dwindling spring, drip by drip, gradually soaking Minu's back...
Minu slowly whispered near my ear, "Sister, when I get better and come home, will you give me the pencil box for a little while to draw some pictures?"
I held his face level with mine and kept kissing his forehead and eyes endlessly; I saw Minu wiping away my tears with his weak hands, with gentle touches. I pressed him tightly against my chest again. The journey seemed endless today!
Then Minu fell silent for about ten minutes. When Minu had fever in his childhood, none of us would sleep all night. We'd all lie down next to his head. We'd fall asleep beside him eventually. When he recovered, smiles would return to all our faces, and waves of joy would flow again.
The car stopped in front of the hospital. When I went to lift Minu to take him inside the hospital, I noticed that Minu was holding me with both arms, and his body had become cold as ice. I kept stroking his body in bewilderment, calling him. He lay there with his eyes closed, somehow strangely still. I kept calling him like a madwoman...
Getting no response from him, I gathered all the strength in my body and ran to the doctor. Father too was running behind me, crying out "Oh Monu... Monu!" and weeping loudly. Then the doctor examined Minu's hands after taking him from my arms. After the examination, understanding something, he told Father, "Take him home, the child has died."
As soon as he said this, I put Minu in Father's arms and ran to another doctor.
Seeing my screaming and shouting, another doctor examined his hands and eyes, made a sad face and said, "Yes, dear, he has indeed died."
Only then did my consciousness return. Minu is dead? How is that possible? Suddenly my whole body seemed to go numb. The ground slipped away from under my feet. All the sounds of the world disappeared. I turned around slowly and looked toward Minu. Father was holding Minu against his chest, sitting on the floor with his legs spread in both directions, staring fixedly at the road. There were no tears in Father's eyes, no words on his lips.
I was looking intently at the face of Minu, who lay silently with his head hanging on Father's shoulder. I saw his arms were spread out, there wasn't the slightest trace of pain on his face. Like a piece of face mixed with the joy of getting colored pencils for a lifetime, as if he would suddenly lift his head, slowly open his eyes, smile briefly and say, "Hey Sister, where did you put that pencil box... give it to me quickly!"
I moved closer. I was staring at Minu in bewilderment, examining him closely from this nearer distance. How could Minu die! How was it possible! My Minu was just a tiny child...he had only just come into this world! It was only the other day that I carried him in my arms from this very hospital, laughing and dancing with joy and happiness as I brought him home. Just the other day he was crying like a kitten in father's arms, mewing softly, his newly opened eyes blinking so sweetly...just like a little rabbit. Yet today too, Minu lies in father's arms...but motionless, lifeless! Could this too be possible!?
I stared at him fixedly and thought: let the world turn upside down, let everything be destroyed, but let the fact that my little rabbit Minu has died be the one lie in this world!
It was not to be. Death is never a lie. Death is the only truth in this world.
I placed my hand on Minu's head. I touched his eyes, face, nose, lips, hair, hands, feet, back, examining everything. As I stroked the little rabbit's back, I lifted his shirt and saw spotted marks on Minu's back. Perhaps my little magician had been beaten today at school for not knowing his lessons. Around those fresh welts were other older marks—perhaps cane marks that we ourselves had given him. Now my heart lurched with a sudden pang. I pressed my face against his back and broke into wailing sobs.
Now father too cried out in anguish. Outside, the sun had set. Darkness had fallen.
We were too late to cry. We were too late to love. We were too late to understand.
We're returning home with Minu in the ambulance. Motionless, silent Minu. No mischief, no restlessness, no demands or desires. All the moon's light seems to be pouring down over my golden magician's entire body. From today on, every day will be Minu's holiday, every day will be Friday. Minu will never have to study again.
Minu was buried next to grandfather's grave.
That day I opened Minu's closet and opened his drawing book. Several large pages. There were many pictures drawn with an inexperienced hand. Almost all the pictures were of us. In the last picture he had drawn, I stood on the right, big brother on the left, father and mother in the middle. And right in the center between father and mother, a half-drawn Minu stood holding both their hands.
I wondered: had Minu asked for colored pencils in his final words because he wanted to complete this unfinished picture? My golden little magician could never finish drawing himself! We had forcibly left him incomplete! When someone commits murder, they get hanged, yet there's no punishment for killing dreams. How can someone live after their dreams have been murdered!
Many years have passed since then. Minu's unfinished drawing was enlarged, framed, and hung in our home; beside it, a photograph of Minu laughing with sparkling joy.
I'm turning through Minu's drawing book. On every page, I can clearly feel the murdered dream of someone who secretly longed to become an artist. If he were alive today, Minu would be a vibrant young man of twenty-five.
Yes, today is my golden Minu's twenty-fifth birthday.
Today is Wednesday. Today is Minu's Friday.