I stood in the corner, watching her. Our classroom had thatched roofs, with bamboo posts for support. The tomboy that she was, my sister was in the middle of a group of boys. They were running all over the place, swinging on the bamboo poles. I was an introvert, she just the opposite. She was the star in school. She sang, she recited, she acted in plays. Name it, she had done it -- and done it better than anyone. She was the ever-active brat so fond of school. She would hide under benches when someone came to take her home. Sudden cries returned me to reality. Her hand had slipped. My sister had fallen. I ran towards her. There was blood.... The principal asked me to return to my class. How could I? I sneaked home. There she lay, my sister, with stitches on her forehead. My father and mother were with her. I stood there, scared. "Don't worry," my father was telling her. "It's nothing." Another day. "Go, fetch milk," my mom says. I was in a blue frock; she in a red, much to my envy. I always believed she got the best. How silly! She is my sister, so what if she got the best? I must be happy. I smile now, after decades, at my immaturity. We both set out. Again my sister was at it. I saw her run and run and run. Then a dog came pouncing. My sister fell on the road. My heart pounded. We went back home with no milk. We grew up. She was the star at school. Always first. I hated it. The maths teacher asked me, "Are you her real sister?" That put an end to my mathematical aspirations. I had three enemies -- maths, my maths teacher and my sister, who was so good at that dratted subject. I went back home hating them all. We had scuffles, fights. I swore at her. High school and college gave me some respite, because we were never in each other's vicinity. We saw much less of each other. Life went on. She went off to a beautiful place on her job posting. I was in college then. We saw her off and I had a lump in my throat seeing her behind the hostel gate. But then the feeling passed. Mom missed her everyday at home. So did Daddy. Her visits were always marked by excitement and activity. Mom preparing dishes and Dad taking her out shopping. I was a passive part of all that. Then came a day when she confessed her love for this most adorable person on earth. And it all happened so fast. My sister was married this same day five years ago. How pretty she looked in those diamonds and the red silk saree! I cried the first time when she left home to be with her husband. For the first time, I missed my sister. I moved on with my life. Went off to a different city for my studies. My sister and I hardly met. We spoke to each on the phone once in a while. I heard about her welfare from my parents. That was it. Then things changed. A cruel blow brought us back together. We spoke often, cheered each other up, decided we would be with each other through thick and thin. Today, I am rocking her baby to sleep. She is so proud when she says, "Hey, little Meera looks just like you!" I am proud too. We still have our fights and arguments. When we fight we feel, this is it, I won't talk to her again, ever. But then, invariably, we talk and laugh and giggle. Is this what they mean when they say blood is thicker than water? If you haven't yet guessed, Tarangini Raman loves her sister as dearly as her own life. Illustration: Uttam Ghosh Tell us what you think of this diary Be part of an exciting venture! Write a Diary!
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