Wednesday, May 11, 2011

Young Sister

(I wrote this for my sister Manavi long time back when we both were high on teenage hormones)

I scream, "Get out! I hate you!" then I slam the door and silently sit and cry.

It always starts with a meager act sometimes for CDs or ear rings and this time it was for some stupid magazine. All I wanted was to read ‘my’ magazine, she was reading it the other day and now she nonchalantly says, "I don’t know where it is." I inquire again, politely of course, and she responds by saying it was on the desk. By this time I’m already furious. I yell, "I have searched it through and through and it’s not there! It didn't simply vanish in the thin air. Tell me where the hell it is!"

"She always does this to me," I say and she says the same. Once it was a different story. My parents tell me that as kids we were inseparable. We would defend each other when someone said something bad and took care of each other. Together we could win any game or any fight. We were a team. Now, we've grown poles apart. How and when did this change occur, I am not certain, but I wish we could go back to how it was in our childhood.

I can only guess that it started when we were admitted in different boarding schools in Darjeeling. I saw her only few times in a year during holidays. I noticed her change into a young girl I could not identify with. I always found myself assessing how different she’s become. Gradually we began to share less and I felt as if she did not understand me. Perhaps she was feeling the same about me. And one day we both understood, we had grown different and were forever disagreeing with each other on everything. I remember a time when we did not speak for a long time, it almost felt like a year. And when we did, we simply screamed at each other.

I longed to tell her I love her and that she is a good young sister, but I was too proud. I could have said she looked great when she tried on a new dress and was seeking an approval with her questioning eyes, but I did not. I ignored my young sister. I now feel like I have lost her. Is it for this reason that I cry? I am furious – furious with her or myself? I shout! Is it because I am ashamed? Perhaps too afraid that she’ll find out, find out that I've not been a good elder sister?

Then suddenly there she is at the door, all upset, eyes swelled up, holding my stupid magazine!

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