Sister

10th January, 1995

My name is Kiran. I am a boy. Today I celebrated my birthday and I am now 11 years old. But I will tell you a secret. I was not born today. I was born on 17th June but my parents have been celebrating my birthday on 10th January. That was when Kiran was born. Not me. Kiran, my sister. She would have been 19 years old today.

My father gifted me a pair of inline roller skates and my mother gave me a color palette, oil colors and synthetic brushes. I am supposed to learn skating and painting. I am good with quad skates as I have been learning it since I was 7 but I have failed twice in my art class. My mother had slapped me when I failed the second time. I hate painting. My hands tremble when I place the brush on paper. I do not know why she has gifted me oil colors. The best use I can think of is to squeeze the tubes all over her hair when she is asleep. Oil, she anyway applies.

—

Today

In the midst of recollections, I make sure that I do not regret things I did. However, I cannot stop myself from regretting about things I knew I could have done but did not do. I do not care what you think about me but I do not even regret breaking two of Kiran’s trophies.

I was conceived as a replacement of my dead sister. She was declared an art prodigy by the age of 6. Of the innumerable talents she possessed, the most striking ones were dancing, sculpting and painting. She often, during her Kathak classes, in the midst of performing the Chakkarwaala Tukda, would launch into Ballet’s pirouettes shifting her weight from heel to toe and back. At the age of 6, she sculpted an exact replica of Camille’s Waltz in clay. Two months later, she reproduced Van Gogh’s A Very Starry Night. One year later she was hit and got her skull crushed by an eight-wheeled truck two miles away from our house, while skating. One and a half years later, I was born.

When I gained consciousness and started to notice the direction in which my life was being steered, I did not feel happy. My fate had been decided even before I was born. I was named Kiran because her name was Kiran. I was admitted to the same school she was in. I was enrolled in the same classes – art, skating, sculpting, dance – which she was in. My life had been planned as an imitation of Kiran’s life till the age of 7 and an actualization of my parents’ aspirations for her for the rest of my life. I do not mean to say that they were bad parents. They were the best parents any one could ever get, but for her and not me. My grandparents never called me Kiran. They always referred to me as Ash (since I drooled over Pokémon). It started from them and later I was Ash for everyone in my family except for my parents.

Throughout my school days, I avoided confronting my parents when it came to my bad performance in Art. If I remember correctly, for 5 years straight, I forged my mother’s signature on the report card even though I usually was among the top 3. I was fairly good at Mathematics. But that didn’t seem to make them happy. With every failure of mine in their eyes and, consequently, my burgeoning hatred towards Kiran, I eagerly awaited the day when I would leave the house forever. The time came. I got admitted to the Mechanical Engineering department of the Indian Institute of Technology Delhi. When I was about to board the train, Nanaji, who had also come with my parents to the railway station to drop me, came up to me and

– Are you angry or happy?
– Both.
– I cannot decide for you whom to be angry at but can I make a request?
– What is it?
– Please forgive Kiran. It was never her fault.

In the conversation that followed, he asked me to visit him and Dadaji in the upcoming summer vacations and get to know more of her. As per him, there were many facts that I did not know. There were many facts that my parents ignored and my grandparents did not deem fit of my age to reveal them to me.

Five months later, while returning from my Engineering Drawing’s tutorial session, I got a phone call from my mother informing me that Nanaji had passed away. At the end of the second semester, I decided to spend the vacations first at his place and then Dadaji’s.

—

– Did she really write this?
– Yes, she did.

Naniji showed me a poem that Kiran had composed at the age of 5. Last three lines were

Little
Like drops on the petals of a rose
I want my little baby to be.

– She always wanted a younger brother. I remember her asking your mother once – ‘Where do you get kids from. Tell me, I will get one for myself. My brother.’
– Haah.
– ‘Pray to God and you will get one’ was what your mother had said and the next day was her first prayer in the house temple.

She then took out the family album that had photographs of my parents’ wedding and the consequent times. In one of the photographs, Nanaji was standing in front of his Blue Ambassador, in a double-breasted pinstripe and a grey hat, looking smart as ever. On his left was Naniji in an elegant Tea Green Saree and in between the two was Kiran, in a calamine and white frock. I could see the gap in her teeth while she smiled, extravagantly.

– She loved the car. On most of the evenings when she was here, we would drive her around the house.

—

Dadaji lived in Surya Nagar in the Civil Lines area of Agra. For the duration I stayed there, he did not mention Kiran to me. Two days before I was supposed to leave for Delhi, I went up to him

– Tell me something about Kiran.
– So, you finally asked.
– What. You were waiting for me to come to you?
– Come with me.

He opened his old Teak cupboard and emerged, clasped in his hand, a folder. There were few handwritten papers. From amongst them, he pulled out a painting and showed it to me. It was a brilliant piece of art with beautiful colors. The scene was that of a 5-6 year old girl and a little boy sitting together. The boy was holding a pencil and was engrossed in a paper in his hand and the girl was bending over, looking equally engulfed. On the paper was written –

32+42-17 = __

– She had painted it on the morning of the incident. Your parents did not want another kid. When she showed it to your father, he was very impressed by the art. The semantics of it, however, disappointed him. She had been increasingly asking for what she called her ‘little baby’. That very day, in the evening she had started crying for her ‘little baby’ again. Irritated, your parents had scolded her and in her anger she had gone out with her skates.

That night, Dadaji took me to the enchanting Taj Mahal. If you happen to be in Agra on a full moon night, do not deprive yourself of witnessing the physical embodiment of unattainable beauty. I looked at it and I saw Kiran. I saw her standing near the right minaret, smiling at me with a gap in her teeth. Someone, somewhere, started to play Paiyada.

I wanted to hold her for the first time in my life yet never in her lifetime.

. . . . . . .

References
1. Camille Claudel’s Waltz
2. Vincent Van Gogh’s A Very Starry Night

Hindi Words
1. Kathak – A North Indian dance form
2. Chakkarwaala Tukda – A major highlight step of Kathak
3. Nanaji – Maternal Grandfather
4. Naniji – Maternal Grandmother
5. Dadaji – Paternal Grandfather