October 24, 1932 - July 24, 1952
“Let no one weep for me, or celebrate my funeral with mourning; for I still live, as I pass to and fro through the mouths of men”—Ennius
During his short time on Earth, Victor was many things to many people: loyal friend, esteemed student, devoted grandson, his parents' pride and joy, blessed child of God and my beloved big brother.
He was the first born son of Pastor and Mrs. Benjamin—the eldest child in our household of six children. Bright as sunshine, he lit up our world. As gentle as a breeze, he was a calming force. Victor was a free and adventurous spirit who loved climbing trees, telling jokes and laughing heartily. My brother was a loving soul whose devotion to family was boundless. Handsome, tall and kind: he was a smart dresser who adored outings with friends, watching films (ones that were acceptable to our strict Adventist-pastor-father) and frequenting our maternal grandparents' home in Chilukuru, Andhra Pradesh.
In July 1952, one such and seemingly hapless trip to Chilukuru with friends would become an earth-shattering chapter in our family's history. Our grandparents' residence in Chilukuru became a second home to Victor. Before setting out on this journey, he stopped at my Narsapur grade school to say goodbye to me and my two older sisters. As he put it: it would be awhile before he saw us again.
Holding me lovingly by the shoulders, he stood me before my sisters and instructed them to not tease, hit or yell at me. He reminded them that I was the baby girl of the family, and accordingly needed to be looked after. I've never forgotten that moment or how much it meant to me.
We would never see each other again.
In Chilukuru while enjoying time with friends—laughing and climbing trees, he climbed atop a tall Jamun (నేరెడు) tree (Indian Black Plum Tree) and fell hard on his back. His lungs had collapsed. The simple joys of the day were short lived as Victor became seriously injured. His lungs would never recover from the pneumonia. Ten days later, three months shy of his 20th birthday, my beloved brother Victor returned to heaven.
I was nine years old then: an innocent and naive child not quite understanding what had transpired. When the family traveled to Chilukuru, I was still unaware that he had passed away. I was dancing on the veranda when I peered through a doorway and saw the top of his head. Many people were seated around him. Curious, I walked inside slowly. In an instant, I understood.
"What's happened to Anna (big brother in Telugu)?" I asked desperately.
Some woman responded and said, "Didn't they tell you dear child?"
I quickly rushed to my grieving mother's arms and wept. Was it not two weeks ago that he gathered his sisters around him, asking them to look after me? His soul must have known. His parting thoughts were for my welfare. I can't tell you what that means to me.
My brother Victor never had the chance to pursue his dreams nor to marry or have children. His legacy remains with those who knew and loved him. He left a void in my childhood and in my life—one that can never be replaced. Apart from the precious memories I've shared with my children (the next generation), this post is my tribute for my darling older brother who I miss everyday.
Fifty-seven years later, our spirits are ever united: I feel him with me always. For now, he is there but one day we'll all be together again.
Sleep well beloved Victor Anna. Thank you. I love you always.