In the Search of Gautam

(Fiction)

Gautam had vanished from my life many years ago.
They said he had left in search of nirvana and then disappeared.
Ever since I became conscious of the world, I’ve been looking for him.
And I still am.

In the beginning, I relied on prarthana—prayer.
I believed that if I prayed long and hard enough, I would find my brother.
But Gautam did not return.

Then came the Partition.
The land that was once one became two.
Barbed wire fences carved the earth into borders.
People crossed over—some this side, some that.
But I couldn’t find Gautam.
My search didn’t end with Partition; it only deepened.

I kept praying in the land where I was born.
One day, a thought came to me: perhaps my prayers lacked power.
I approached a wise elder and asked,
“Baba, why are my prayers not working?”

The elder replied,
“Child, offer duas instead.
Duas are what matter.
If you must pray, go to India. Prarthana works there.”

So I stopped the prarthanas and started offering duas.
I begged. I wept. I pleaded with all my soul for years.
But still, Gautam did not appear.

Again, I returned to the elder.

“Baba, my duas have failed. I still haven’t found my brother.
Tell me—what should I do?”

“You don’t know how to ask,” he said.
“Cry harder, beg from your gut. Then your prayer will be answered.”

I obeyed. I cried. I begged.
But Gautam remained lost.

I thought perhaps I should return to Prarthana.
So I went to the temple priest.

“Pujari ji, guide me,” I said.
“My brother Gautam is missing. What can I do?”

“When did he go missing?” the priest asked.

“Many years ago. Before I was even born.”

The priest looked puzzled.
“Then how do you know he existed?”

“I just do. That’s why I’m searching for him.
Please—just tell me how I can find him.”

“You must perform a havan,” he said.
“A sacred fire ritual. Only then will you achieve success.”

So we performed a great havan.
But nothing happened. Gautam did not come.

I returned to the priest.

“Pujari ji, we did everything. Why hasn’t he come?”

The priest didn’t answer. He simply glared at me.

I asked quietly,
“Tell me… does God even hear the prayers of people on this side of the border?
Or has He scratched our names off His list?”

The priest’s face turned red.
“What blasphemy is this? Are you an atheist? Get out of here!”

“Don’t be angry, Pujari ji. I’m not an atheist.
It’s just… this separation from my elder brother has broken me,” I said, folding my hands.

My humility softened him.
I sat cross-legged in silence before him.
Seeing my state, compassion finally touched his face.

He said,
“A group of pilgrims is going to India—Kashi, Mathura, Haridwar.
Go with them.
Pray there.
Worship there.
Your heart’s desire will be fulfilled.”

I was overjoyed.
Finally, I thought, my prarthanas would be heard on Indian soil.
But my joy was short-lived.

Relations between the two countries worsened.
Borders stiffened like old wounds reopening.
And the pilgrimage was canceled.

I waited for months, but nothing changed.

So I went to the Sialkot border myself.
Standing at the edge, I called for Gautam.

There was a tree—its trunk was divided right through the middle by the border.
A single living being rooted in two nations.
I thought: surely here, my prayer will be heard.

I folded my hands.
“Gautam, come back now.
Surely you have found your nirvana by now.
Return to us.
We are lost.
We need you more than ever.”