The Myth of Avinash

In my head, I have an imprinted photo of my brother, Avinash. In the last year or so, that imprint has only gained clearer definition; each time his visage was similar. He is tall, about 6’1, but not standing straight. His face is rough and unshaven, and his eyes squint or droop behind a pair of slightly crooked glasses, betraying the hint of weariness. His hair looks a little disarrayed, while his smile appears to on occasion be forced out simply for cordialness and politeness. He pulls up in his white, ’91 Camry, the car he loves and won’t get rid of. “Damn dependable car”, he’d say. The car looks like him; it has a little wear and tear in the interior, it’s missing a hubcap on the right wheel, and the paint is a little dull with a nick here or there. It just wouldn’t quit, though - and neither will he. Most of all, he looks like a man with a burden; he looks to be permanently tired.

But it wasn’t a down-and-out type of tired, which is what I have failed to realize; instead, it was the result of trying to take the initiative in life. If you asked him, he’d probably say something like, “pshawww, if you’re not tired, you’re not living yet”. He’s the kind of guy that has always been on the go, always looking for the place he needed to be at – I thought he was crazy. Even as a little kid growing up in the same room as him, I’d see him going after meaningful activities to fill up his time: from volunteering at the homeless shelter on Friday nights, to frequenting the Red Cross centers to donate blood, to wanting to join Boy Scouts and the baseball team and going to school retreats, he always had to be doing something. I, on the other hand, was perfectly content to be sitting at home watching T.V. or playing the computer; I always figured I had all my life to be busy, and right now to relax.

To really understand where my brother is coming from, though, you have to understand something about our family and his background. My brother was born in India, like my parents, but grew up in America since he was a little baby. Throughout our lives, we have both been hit by two opposing idealistic views from our parents. On one hand, we’ve had our dad’s “life is about success” and on the other, our mom’s more laidback and unconditional approach of “life is about whatever you want it to be.” In his 7^th grade, our family had a major crisis; my brother’s grades were falling and he was having problems with his friends and classmates. And then one day, a school counselor had made a discovery that nobody wanted to make: my brother had written a suicide note. My dad switched him to a private school, Chaminade, and in a way, he started his life over. It was a turning point in his life – a turning point, perhaps, that never had the chance to hit me. Whenever I see Avi now, we tend to talk little outside of the generic boundaries of small talk, but there’s something special about it, still.

“Hey, how’s it going?” he would say, as he nudges closer to me, perhaps, I fear, to lock me in some sort of comical (for him) headlock.

“Just the usual…school and stuff,” would come my inevitable response.

“That’s it, eh? Stayin’ out of trouble and all? Managing to keep dad from killin’ you still?”

“Yeah, yeah, just gettin’ lucky so far,” I’d respond with a smirk. “So how have YOU been?” I’d ask, already knowing the answer.

“Same ‘ole, same ‘ole…It’s going. Mallory’s going back in the hospital Friday. Got another bonus from work, and I’ve been working on the web and linux servers…you should check them out, they’ll be really cool soon.”

“I will, I will”, and the conversation trails off as he pats my shoulder and walks away. Each time I’m left wondering if perhaps it’s time for me to reach out there and grab a little of that motivation. Each time, I’m left wondering if it’s time to ditch the easy way out road. Perhaps it goes back to that missed turning point - somewhere along the line, my brother had decided that life wasn’t about what you accomplished, but about what difference you made.

I see him today, with that tired gaze seemingly chiseled on his face, and I know that he has succeeded. Mallory, his girlfriend, depends on him – she is sick, in and out of the hospital, and he is a pillar of support for her, from working overtime to visiting her as much as possible. Needless to say, he has made more than a little difference in my own life; I remember scenes of my brother battling with my parents on my behalf, trying to be a cohesive element holding everything together. I remember too, the countless times he has tried to make me see where my parents are coming from, refraining from lecture despite my stubbornness and ignorance. In either case, whether he said it in so many words or not, I could almost hear his sincerity like its own entity.

“Man…just be careful…I’m worried about you. Have fun, but stay out of trouble…or at least try not to get caught,” he would add whimsically, trying to lighten up the serious bit of talk sneaking into the conversation. It’s nothing I haven’t heard before, but perhaps in a way I’ve never heard before.

To one of my close friends, he has become a mentor – I have genuinely seen his

simple words of “been there, done that” make a huge difference in somebody’s life, in somebody’s attitude – in many cases, it has made a difference in my own life. And then I’ll never be able to forget that one day he brought home a friend from the shelter he volunteered at, a homeless man, and my dad’s discrete displeasure. It still brings a smile to my face this day.

Even now, I still sometimes wonder how Avi can bother to manage it all. It still seems to me like an awful lot of work for an awful little to gain – but I can picture him standing here, in this room with me, telling me I’m dead wrong, that there’s everything to gain. And thinking back to fictional heroes like Sisyphus, I’m not so sure he’s wrong. I realize now that he does indeed look like a man with a burden – it’s the burden of trying to really live life. Maybe I’ve been the crazy one all along.