6 Years, 6 Months and 24 Days Apart – by Saanjana Kapoor
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4 Years, 11 Months After
Standing on the coffee table, my younger sister Pearl holds out the TV remote like live bait. Her shadow looms over the tiled floor. Her hair, once strangled into a ponytail, escapes the elastic band to sprout tendrils around her face. There’s a distant shuffle of footsteps. Pearl’s gaze momentarily leaves mine and I pounce. Her smirk dissipates as my fingers lock around the remote. I switch to my favourite movie and press play. She stands with her hands folded as I settle myself on the creamy sofa. Just before Shah Rukh Khan’s smile stretches across the screen, she curls up against me, her breath tickling my neck.
11 Years, 2 Months, 1 Day After
It’s been almost 16 hours since we last spoke. I peek through her half-open door. Pearl’s head bops to the beat of the pop song blaring from her headphones, as her lips mouth the words. An untouched IKEA package rests at the foot of her bed. I start to turn away and see Mumma is standing next to me, gesturing towards Pearl, as if to say tum badi ho. I sigh and knock on my sister’s door.
7 Months Before
Dadi adjusts my dupatta before we enter the Hanuman mandir and approach the lifelike idols of the deities. ‘Bolo bhaiya,’ Dadi says when I bow my head, holding a handful of gold coins in my palm. I remember overhearing aunties telling Mumma to try again, over sips of chai. I remember a family friend’s daughter gripping my hand. I remember watching Dilwale Dulhania Le Jayenge alone. I toss the coins into the donation box, waiting for the clink before whispering, ‘behen.’
11 Years, 2 Months, 1 Day After
‘Could you go any slower?’ I say, wincing under the weight of the backrest and chair seat while Pearl screws them together.
‘It’s not my fault this screwdriver is older than I am.’ Pearl tightens her grip, but the screw stands stubbornly still.
‘It’s probably on an angle again,’ I say, sweat beading my forearms. ‘Take it out and do it again.’
Pearl scowls, before unscrewing the bolt, picking a less deformed screw and starting again.
‘Stand up and do it.’
She props herself on her knees.
‘It’s still not straight.’
‘Didi,’ she whines, crossing her arms.
‘You’re not doing it properly. And you’ve left it till the last minute.’
‘Don’t act like Mumma,’ she snaps back.
7 Years, 9 Months, 12 Days After
I am picking up my sister from school when her classmate mistakes Pearl and me for mother and daughter.
‘Why would you think that?’ Pearl scoffs.
I swing Pearl’s school bag around my shoulders and grip her hand, conscious of everyone’s stares as we cross the road. I’m twice my sister’s age and have taught her how to do everything from double-knotting her shoelaces to riding a bike. On the walk home, I realise I’ve always been this way: half mother, half sister. I went from feeding her breakfast when she was a toddler to combing her hair before primary school to filling out her high school application forms. While my parents worked, I accompanied her to parent–teacher interviews, doctor appointments and school uniform fittings. Keeping an eye on her became second nature, a responsibility I was trusted to carry.
11 Years, 2 Months, 1 Day After
After I’ve done the first one, Pearl pushes the remaining castors into the base, looking up for a smile each time. I lead, and she follows close behind. I wonder if she has it easier, given she can watch and learn from my mistakes. Is that what a younger sister is, a better version of the older one? Doesn’t that make me the understudy? Born to prepare her for the role I have rehearsed my entire life; it will never be mine when she can play it better. Each year, I seem to inch closer to the backstage. Perhaps it’s proportional: the further I’m relegated to the wings, the brighter the spotlight shines on her.
“Perhaps it’s proportional: the further I’m relegated to the wings, the brighter the spotlight shines on her.”
Pearl watches intently as I struggle to align the holes of the armrest with the side of the seat, eventually finding the right angle and bolting the first screw. When it’s her turn, I realise she’s faster than me. Her lithe fingers expertly tilt the seat for the next screw, and the next, and the next, like her moves have been choreographed. I frown and lean back, waiting for her to call for help, but she never does. Pearl beams and sets the screwdriver down. When she glances at me, I look away, pretending to read the instructions. I shouldn’t act like this. She was once all I ever wanted.
“When she glances at me, I look away, pretending to read the instructions. I shouldn’t act like this. She was once all I ever wanted.”
The Day
I swing my legs back and forth, forgetting Mumma’s superstition that it brings bad luck. My fingers are crossed and I’m mouthing the one prayer I can confidently recite. My eyes dart across the posters on the white walls; round baby faces smile back at me. Beside me, Papa’s feet are planted on the tiled floor, his forehead as creased as my pleated skirt. I jump up when a nurse’s silhouette appears.
Mumma tells me the first thing I said was ‘I won’ – as if my wishes had outrun Dadi’s decades of worship at Lakshmi’s feet. God had listened and given me everything I ever asked for. I can imagine myself smiling in the car on the way home, watching the telephone lines cast shadows on my sister’s face. I remember promising to love her, no matter what.
11 years, 2 months, 1 Day After
The seat clicks onto the gas strut. The assembled blue chair stands in the midst of cardboard, screwdrivers and empty chip packets.
‘Didi!’ Pearl laughs, leaping onto the seat. ‘We did it!’
I tuck a loose strand of hair behind her ear and smile back. ‘Okay, get ready for take-off,’ I say, thrusting the chair forward. She squeals as I push the chair around the room, deliberately bumping into the bed frame and bookshelf to jolt her backwards. Loose bag straps and dirty laundry tangle with the wheels as I start to spin her around.
‘Five, four, three, two,’ we chant. Her flying braids whip my cheeks.
‘One!’ I stop the chair and Pearl falls forward, sending us both toppling onto the carpet. We smile widely and, in this moment, I see her for who she is, not what my mind imagines her to be. If asking for a sister was an act of defiance, then loving her is a form of self-care.
We lie in a heap, limbs entwined, our giggles rising like bubbles towards the chipped ceiling. ▼
Translation
Tum badi ho: you are older / you are the eldest
Dadi: grandmother
Dupatta: an article of clothing worn by women over the chest or over the head (like a headscarf), typically with salwar kameez — a traditional combination of a loose cuffed trousers (salwar) and a long tunic (kameez)
Hanuman: a Hindu god
Mandir: a Hindu temple
Bolo bhaiya: say brother / ask for a brother
Dilwale Dulhania Le Jayenge: a famous romantic Bollywood movie
Behen: sister
Didi: big sister, what a younger sibling will call an older sister
Papa: father
Lakshmi: Hindu goddess of wealth and prosperity
Image: Florian Klauer
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