Standing on My Brother's Shoulders

by Tara J Lal

  ‘I’m just excited to be home,’ he said, but his voice and body language belied his words.

  I stood there waiting for him to say something else. When he did, he spoke in a monotone: ‘I was walking down the street and this little old lady passed me. She said, “Don’t like the likes of you around here.”’

  I was indignant. ‘Oh Ad, you should have told her you were about to go to Oxford and that you were the head boy at University College School. Then see what she had to say!’

  I was burning up with fury. How dare she? Didn’t she know he was perfect?

  The only thing that shone from his ghostly face was utter devastation. I stood and watched his spirit dissolve before my eyes. I wanted him to be Ad again, my normal, funny, big brother. I wanted to reach out and touch him and bring him back from whatever awful distant place he was in, but it was as if he was behind a panel of shatterproof glass through which I couldn’t reach. He looked at me. No flicker of life in his eyes.

  ‘We bought you a bike for your birthday so you can cycle around Oxford.’

  ‘Thanks,’ he said, without enthusiasm.

  All I knew at the time was that he looked and felt absolutely disconnected from me, and from the world.

  * There is now a wealth of evidence that demonstrates the importance of belonging and social connection in maintaining mental health, building resilience and protecting against suicide.

  CHAPTER 11

  Two weeks later, Adam started his degree at Balliol, scrawling a letter to me before he left, leaving it on the kitchen table:

  Dear TJ

  Take good care of yourself. I’m going to miss you lots. And baby, even if things look really bad, remember, all of us, Jo, Dad and I, will always be here. If you ever want to talk, just write to me. I will write anyway as no doubt I’m going to feel quite lonely at first as well.

  All my love Ad xxx

  PS We are all individuals and however incapable we may seem to ourselves we all manage in the end.

  Adam had never wanted to go to Oxford. The elitism didn’t sit comfortably with him. I had tried to persuade him that he could choose a different university, that he didn’t have to follow the path Mum and Dad had laid out for him, but he saw going to Oxford as his duty.

  India had only heightened Adam’s discomfort. Having immersed himself in the suffering and hardship of life there, he felt the inequality even more acutely. He could not reconcile his fortunate life, with advantages handed to him on a plate, with the millions of poverty-stricken lives in India.

  When we were sitting in the railway restaurant there was a man, an Untouchable, sweeping the floor. Down on all fours as dirty as the ground he was cleaning. God, it made me angry. This human being, this ‘child of God’, subjected to such an eternity. How weak and defenceless had society made him, how accepting of his fate. Thoughts like ‘stand up, be a man’ pounced on my brain, but they weren’t my thoughts … just memories of some film-inspired clichés. But, oh God, how full was my heart with sadness, how I wanted to do the right owed to him … how disgusting is human nature. I wanted to stand up and – in that oh-so-hackneyed way – pull him to his feet and shout to everyone, ‘This is a man, not a mongrel.’ Oh fuck it, it’s a load of bollocks but it was the truth. Obligingly, I have written it as it was thought, as tacky and vulgar as it sounded to myself. And, oh how so very patronizing. Great saint gives beggar pride … God, unthinkingly base of me – shit, shut up.

  Adam’s world was in conflict with his conscience. How could he go to Balliol while billions of people starved in the world? He could find no justice in what he saw, no comfortable terrain on which to stand. Even the charity work he did for the homeless did little to assuage his feelings of guilt.

  I was seventeen and in my final year of school. A-levels loomed. I was about to take part in a selection weekend for Operation Raleigh, a charity for young people to experience community work and adventure projects in developing countries. An ex-participant had come to give a talk at school about his experiences and it had immediately grabbed my attention.

  Adam had given me an SAS survival guidebook to help me. I read the book from cover to cover in my desperation to be selected.

  After the weekend, I couldn’t wait to tell Adam how it had gone.

  Monday 10 October 1988

  Dear little Addie,

  How’s it going? I want to hear all about it so I expect a letter in return. You never know, you might even get a visit from your little sis (or should I say big sis?).

  I’ve just had the toughest weekend of my life, but also one of the best. I went on the Operation Raleigh selection weekend. It was absolutely brilliant! We had to run everywhere in our groups with packs and all to different grid/map references, where we had to pick up various things – inner tubes, poles, paddles and a plastic bag containing a rabbit (our dinner!) which I later had to skin, cook on a fire and eat! In fact it didn’t taste too bad at all – just like chicken. Mind you, anything would taste good at ten o’clock at night having run around all day! We had to solve all these problems like how to get over an eight-foot high electric fence with three poles and some rope, and how to get across this river with ten planks and fourteen empty plastic containers. Then we had to make a raft out of the inner tubes and poles. One of the best things about it was being in the team. Everyone really encouraged and helped each other. By the end I really felt close to them.

  It was brilliant to get away and not even think about work for two days. It was just what I needed, although it did make me wonder why I’m sitting in school when I could be out there doing something like that, but I guess it has to be done! Anyway, Addie, I’m knackered now (despite having slept fourteen hours last night, trying to recover!) so I’ll say goodnight!

  Lots & lots & lots & lots & lots & lots of love and kisses and hugs

  TJ

  Monday 17 October 1988

  Dear Addie – I’ve just received a letter of congratulations from Operation Raleigh saying that I’ve been selected to go on an expedition – wicked, eh? I can’t wait. Mind you, I have to raise £2,200! Just a minor problem! They haven’t told me much about the expeditions yet except that there are two to Australia, two to Zimbabwe and one to Chile, and I have to put down a list of three in order of preference.

  So … Addie, how are you? I hope you’re working hard. Have you done anything about changing courses yet? Get yourself together and do something about it, okay? That’s an order, by the way!

  I’m not really a nagging little sister, am I? But, Addie, I hope you are looking after yourself and are happy. You just have to make a big, big effort. Ultimately it’s only you that can make yourself happy. You can’t rely on other people. I know it sounds ridiculous, but I really have found that if you smile more, just when you’re walking down the street or sitting in your room and thinking – it really does make you feel much happier. So stop dwelling on everything you think you should be, but aren’t, and don’t think about things so much – just get up and do them! I know it’s hard and I don’t practise what I preach, but please try.

  Anyway, end of lecture number 500,000. Wake up, Adam, don’t worry, I’ve finished. I’d better go because it’s time for Neighbours!

  Lots and lots of hugs.

  Love

  TJ xxx

  CHAPTER 12

  Adam sat, desolate at his desk in Room 36, Staircase 22, Balliol College, Oxford, one of the most prestigious learning institutions in the world. Images of India kept flashing though his mind, and especially the Untouchable on his hands and knees cleaning the floor. He stared out of his window to the quad below. Masters in academic gowns strolled confidently across the perfectly mown grass. Didn’t anyone else feel the inequality? Where was the compassion? What was the point? An overwhelming emptiness seemed to be encroaching relentlessly on his very being.

  He stared at the chemistry essay in front of him. The wall next to his desk was lined with empty Marlboro packets.

  Adam’s mind raced, f
lipping between meaningless trivia, the injustice in the world, and the chemistry essay that sat before him. Fuck it, why bother. I don’t want to do this, anyway. Then suddenly there was India again, and the Untouchable at the station. Why hadn’t he helped him? He was just as useless as the master walking across the quad. He couldn’t get control of his head. Only alcohol seemed to numb the confusion and to temper the flashes of frightening darkness that appeared within him like a devil poised to strike. He took out a piece of paper and started writing to his sister.

  17 October 1988

  Dear TJ,

  Glad to hear the weekend went well, not surprising really, what with your SAS guidebook to survival. Well, I’m pretty pissed at the moment, but I’ll try to phrase a letter of some sort. Mind you, I’ve got a right to be as I’ve just finished a twenty-page essay on some fucking chemistry crap. I can’t fucking believe how much work I’ve done so far. Two nights in a row I’ve been up until four thirty in the morning, not having a laugh but instead trying to write this bloody essay. They don’t half ask for work. Anyway, enough about boring shitty work – what about the people? Well, there are good people here; it’s just that I’m not really in the mood to get to know them. I don’t really know how to do that anyway (which is probably nearer the truth). It’s so bloody hard to accustom oneself to the idea that this is what one has chosen to do. Don’t get me wrong, Booga, it’s not that the place is getting me down, it’s only myself. You know how it is: when you’re not thinking, you have a laugh, and as soon as you do, you wonder why on earth?

  I’ve talked to the dean about changing course, by the way; he is a bit of a big boss, but politics, philosophy and economics doesn’t seem possible unless I do the whole of the first-year chemistry. The worst thing is, I don’t really know quite how much I’m interested in doing it anyway. Dilemmas. Anyway, I’m going to see him tomorrow to make a decision. Fuck, I might end up giving the whole place a holy piss off and doing English A-level. Shit, it’s so hard to judge. The old emotions are going up and down like a yo-yo. One minute I feel as if I can cope with everything, the next I’m quiet and don’t say a word to anyone. No basis for making friends, really. Oh well, life rolls on. Shit, it’s almost 1am. Gotta get some sleep. But before I do, Taj, thanks for writing.

  However much truth seems weird, it’s all we can do to obey it. Heavy concept to stimulate the Joji vibes. By the way, send my love to her and to Dad. Maybe he might even like to write to me?

  And you, Teej, come up if you want to, we’ll go for a piss up. Until then, little sis, take care and don’t let the work get you down.

  Keep smiling.

  Love Ad xxx

  Monday 7 November 1988

  Dear Addie,

  You old codger … How’s it going? Keeping up with the old fitness regime I hope! Daniel, the old slapper, has insisted that I go to the Arsenal versus Liverpool match on Wednesday – oh dear! I told him I was going to wear a Tottenham scarf, but he said I’d get mashed, so I went off the idea pretty rapido!

  I have just spent three hours (almost!) hoovering the whole of the house, including your and Jo’s rooms, so it is now spic and span! Well, maybe that’s a slight exaggeration, but it does look better.

  Dad has finally unblocked his ears – not that it makes any difference when you try to speak to him! By the way I spoke to big Joji yesterday. She kept asking when we were going to go up and see her. So how about the weekend of the 26th/27th November? I’ll have done my Oxford entrance exam by then and it’s the week before you break up. Anyway, standard electrode potentials are calling so I’d better go!

  Love you lots and lots and lots.

  Big hugs and kisses.

  TJ xxx

  PS Take care, my little moojie … and whenever you feel completely pissed off with everything … I’m always here, feeling just as lonely as you.

  London, 14 November 1988

  Dad, as usual, had his nose buried in a book in the living room. He was present but for all intents and purposes, he was absent. I sat at our kitchen table talking to Ben, my sister’s ex-boyfriend. Talking and crying. It was Monday and Adam had been down at the weekend. He’d had that pale, strained, blank look about him. We had gone for a run together. He had talked about trying to change courses, about not knowing what he wanted or what was wrong with him. He spoke about quitting Oxford, about feeling down.

  I’d never seen him like that. He saw nothing good in himself, was consumed with the idea that he wasn’t as good as everyone thought he was. I did my best: I told him to exercise, to run, and to leave Oxford. He could have the rest of the year off and then go to Edinburgh. He kept telling me it was okay, not to worry, he’d sort it. Yet I wasn’t so sure about that: he was a skeleton without a spirit, a faint shadow of the Adam I knew.

  I was relieved that Ben was there, and that I could share my worries. We were close; he had been there through my mother’s death.

  ‘I’ve never seen him like that. He looked terrible.’

  ‘Ta, just worry about yourself. Look after yourself. Adam will be okay.’

  ‘I’m scared; I don’t know what to do.’

  ‘He’ll be okay, Ta. He really will.’

  I went to bed with puffy eyes. He’ll be okay, I kept saying to myself. Keep writing, phoning. But I’d had that feeling of foreboding before. It was uncomfortably familiar.

  Balliol College, Oxford, November 1988 (not dated)

  Dearest little Teej,

  Thanks for the letter. By now you’ll have seen the footy match, which I hope, went the way of the correct team – that’s Liverpool, of course, despite what Dan may say. Has he inspired you as much as Dan’s songs inspired me in India? You know, the sort of highly prophetic and artistic yodelling of ‘come on you gooners’ and ‘you’re going home in a red and white ambulance’. Yes, I thought as much. He had such a lovely habit of crying out such poetic lines in the most appropriate places, e.g., Hindu temples, Muslim temples, Sikh temples and every other place of religious sanctitude. I think it’s all part of his acute cultural sensitivity myself. By the way, send the little gooner my regards and of course tell him he’s a cunt.

  As for everything else. Well, it’s going along. Ta, don’t worry. I’ll sort it. Not quite sure how as I’m getting myself further and further into a mess. I made the application to change courses to human sciences, but it’s not as simple as that. I have to apply to a separate committee and have an interview. And really I don’t want to do it anyway and … I’m going mad …

  Goodbye

  Love your …?

  Panic, his mind swirling, colours spinning … Breathe, try again, stay calm … What is happening? … What is happening?

  London, 21 November 1988 Oxford Entrance Exam, Paper 1, General Paper

  I walked into the examination room. Why was I here? I didn’t want to go to Oxford. I wasn’t smart enough anyway. I knew that. I thought of Adam and how miserable he was and recalled his last letter to me.

  Dear Teej,

  Your Oxford entrance exams must be pretty soon so I thought I’d send you a quick note to wish you luck. Hope the whole business hasn’t stressed you out too much, and anyway, you’re doing it only for yourself. So, if you don’t really want to come here, it doesn’t matter in any case. Hope Dad hasn’t been applying too much emotional pressure. I know it’s hard, but just do what you want in the end. Dad won’t expect anything else …

  I stared at the exam question. Can someone else be a better judge of my interests than I am myself? It was an open question, to be interpreted freely, allowing a special few to shine: those blessed with supreme intelligence. I had nothing brilliant or unique to write. My brain kept veering back to Adam.

  I started to scribble things down, trying to answer the question but I found myself writing, on and on, about Adam: how he couldn’t see the beautiful person that he was; how twisted his view of himself was compared with what the world saw; how he couldn’t see his talents, only his faults. Did I answer the question o
n the exam paper? Maybe, vaguely, but I didn’t care; I had written what was in my heart.

  I got up and left, knowing I had failed.

  Balliol College, Oxford, 21 November 1988

  Adam sat in his room. Flat, empty, disconnected. The words flowed from his pen:

  I want to write a final statement of what I am. I am weak-willed, lazy, insecure and very stupid. I wasn’t once, that’s true. However, I have been living by that fact for a number of years now. Everybody believes it isn’t true, but unfortunately it is. All life is passing me by now. The only way I see it in some part of its fire is unfortunately when I am drunk, when not worried by anything in the world. The rest of the time it is a chore, a dream waiting to end. The only reason for this is because I have made it so, by convincing myself that this is what it is like. But these words do actually have meaning.

  Unfortunately I also realize that I cannot live like this because there are so many people that love me in all honesty. I cannot match their love and so I cannot allow myself to destroy them as I have destroyed myself. My whole life has been a catharsis – look at my ‘writings’.

  You will all explain the reasons wrongly. I’ll tell you why, because I have lied all my life. I have cried all my life, because I wasn’t perfect and I couldn’t accept it.

  London, 21 November 1988, 8.30pm

  It was my best friend Jess’s eighteenth birthday. We were walking on Hampstead Heath with her boyfriend Dan, Adam’s best friend. Jess had also sat the Oxford entrance exam that day; only, unlike me, she wanted to get in.

  Dan and Ad had travelled India together and seen each other through some rocky times. Like Adam, Dan hadn’t fitted the mould of the private school they had attended. They shared the sense of wanting to discover more about the world, about life, and they both knew what it was to struggle. Adam loved him.