Chapter 1: Monsoon Blessings

In our Lucknow colony, every aunty’s gaze lingered a little longer on Meera-didi, their voices hushed and awestruck as they compared their own daughters to her. During aarti at the temple, I’d catch them nudging each other, whispering about her flawless braid and that gentle, movie-star smile. But for me, that same awe was mixed with something heavier—something that pressed down in the silent corners of our home, unspoken but always there.

No one outside knew that, on those sweltering, secret summer nights, almost all my firsts belonged to her. The air thick with the smell of mosquito coils, Meera and I would lie on the cool mosaic floor, listening to distant rickshaw bells and the whir of an old inverter. In that stifling stillness, the world felt suspended, and the line between elder sister and confidante blurred in ways even I could not explain.

In the end, she sneered and said she would ruin my whole life, not realising her own life had already been ruined by me.

Sometimes, late at night, I’d remember the way her lips curled—a goddess fallen, a storm brewing in her heart, as if the burden of two lives was balanced on her delicate shoulders.

The doctor said my mother’s health was poor and she wouldn’t be able to have children again, so my parents adopted a baby girl who had been left at the entrance of the city hospital.

In those days, the city hospital’s gates were always crowded—rickshaws waiting, hawkers calling out, and somewhere amid that, a baby left alone, wrapped in a faded old sari. People said it was fate, or maybe a sign from God, that my parents found her first.

Because it was just the start of summer, they named her Meera—after the first rains of June.

In our house, names always carried a story—my nani used to say the monsoon brings blessings, and Meera was meant to be our family’s first shower of luck.

Only half a year after adopting Meera, my parents had me.

A miracle, the elders said, as if Meera’s arrival had turned the wheel of fortune in our home. Dadi used to light two diyas every evening, one for Meera, one for the new hope growing in my mother’s womb.

They never expected to have a child of their own, so they were so overjoyed they lost all sense.

My father, usually so reserved, distributed boxes of Haldiram’s sweets in the entire lane. My mother, radiant in her faded nightie, hugged everyone who visited. It was as if Diwali had come early that year.

On the day I was born, the whole family forgot about Meera and left her alone at home in our Lucknow bungalow.

In the chaos—relatives pouring in, neighbours peeking in with gifts and gossip—nobody remembered Meera, just barely two years old, sitting quietly on the divan, a half-eaten Marie biscuit in her hand. Sunita aunty from next door peeked through the window, noticed Meera alone, and later gossiped in the lane: “Aaj kal toh bachchon ko bhi bhool jaate hain log, hai na?” That whisper travelled fast, making Amma’s ears burn with shame.

It wasn’t until the next day, when my father returned home to fetch a feeding bottle for me, that he found Meera curled up on the sofa, unfed for an entire day, without even the strength to cry.

My father told the story with guilt in his voice for years. He found her clutching the edge of his kurta, eyes glazed with hunger, her voice just a whisper, too weak even to call for Ma. That day, Amma wept for hours, vowing never to let Meera be neglected again.

For as long as I can remember, I always heard my mother repeating to her:

“Arjun, your little brother, was born weak. You must take good care of him.”

Her words were always accompanied by that gentle hand on Meera’s head, smoothing down the hair, as if trying to press responsibility into her scalp.

“Arjun is the most important person in our family. You have to help him, okay?”

Meera would lower her eyes, her grip tightening on the wooden comb Amma handed her. I watched her face—calm, but her knuckles white, the unspoken ache hidden beneath her obedience.

She would say this while making Meera’s braid every morning before school, her tone both cajoling and commanding, the way only a mother can manage.

“You’re the older sister. You must always give in to your younger brother. You must spoil him your whole life.”

Sometimes, it felt like these words were chanted more often than our evening prayers, echoing in every corner of our house, till even the walls seemed to remind Meera of her duty.

Meera always listened to my mother. Ever since she was little, she let me have my way, spoiled me, and took care of me in every way.

She would quietly let me have the last gulab jamun, save the biggest piece of mango for me, and wrap her own arms around me whenever I had a bad dream. She was the first to run when I scraped my knee, her own hands trembling as she dabbed Dettol on my wounds.

I liked my sister the most since I was little. I always followed her wherever she went, doing whatever she did.

If Meera went to the terrace to feed the pigeons, I would trudge behind, carrying the packet of grains, tripping over my own feet. My mother would shake her head, but Meera would only smile, making space for me at her side.

I was born in November, so Meera started primary school a year before me. I wanted to go with her, but I wasn’t old enough. I couldn’t see her all day and cried so much I couldn’t eat.

The tiffin she packed for me would remain untouched. Amma would try to distract me with toys or sweets, but only Meera’s return could bring back my appetite. Even the servants teased, “Arjun baba won’t eat unless Didi feeds him.”

My parents felt sorry for me, so they let Meera come home from school every afternoon to check on me.

They spoke to the schoolteacher—old Mrs. Saxena—who agreed with a knowing nod. “Some siblings are like Ram-Lakshman, inseparable. Let them be.”

The school was far from home. Meera would come home at twelve and go back at one-thirty. Sometimes, she didn’t even have time to finish her tiffin.

She’d dash in, hair sticking to her forehead, uniform rumpled, but her first stop was always my room. Even as she gobbled cold paratha rolls, she listened to my endless chatter, never once complaining.

Back then, what I looked forward to most was growing up quickly. As long as I grew up, I could go to school with Meera and see her all day long.

I’d mark my height on the wall with a crayon, waiting for the day I’d be tall enough to wear a school bag like hers, dreaming of the day we’d walk side by side, two equals.

When I finally went to school and tasted the bitterness of studying, I realised how naïve I had been.

Within a week, the weight of homework and the teacher’s sharp tongue made me long for those lazy afternoons at home. My handwriting was clumsy, my marks worse. Only Meera’s soft encouragement kept me from giving up.

But Meera never seemed to think it was hard. She was always outstanding in her studies.

Her report card was always filled with “Excellent” and “Very Good.” Teachers praised her handwriting, her manners, even the way she stood up to answer questions—so straight-backed, so sure of herself.

When I started school, my parents made her repeat a year so she could be in the same class as me and take care of me.

They told everyone proudly, “Our Meera is so mature—she can repeat a year for her brother’s sake. She’s not losing anything; Arjun needs her.” Sometimes, I wondered if anyone ever asked Meera what she wanted.

I struggled to get middle marks, but Meera, who never studied at home, always ranked first in the class.

Our teachers often used her as an example. "Be like Meera—polite and hardworking," they’d say. At home, Ma would shake her head at my average marks but still lay out Meera’s uniform with extra care, as if her achievements were a shield for the family’s pride.

After school, on weekends, during winter and summer breaks—whenever classmates invited Meera out to play, my parents never let her go. They just made her stay home and study with me.

I’d hear the sounds of the colony children playing cricket outside, the thwack of the bat and peals of laughter. Meera would glance longingly at the window, but she never disobeyed. She’d sit beside me, reading aloud from my textbooks, her voice soft and patient.

In fifth standard, once when both my parents were out, I got bored of studying and begged her to take me out to play.

It was the beginning of winter, and I still remember the way Meera looked at the door, biting her lip as if weighing her own desires against duty. I tugged at her kurta, pleading, “Didi, just for a little while? Please na?”

Meera hesitated for a long time, but finally nodded.

She quickly plaited her hair, grabbed her tiny wallet, and put on her faded slippers. I could see a glimmer of excitement in her eyes—a rare rebellion in the air.

She took me to a nearby mall, holding my hand, watching the older girls play on the dance arcade machine.

The aroma of chaat and the shrill calls of balloon-sellers filled the air. Meera’s payal jingled as she stepped onto the dance machine, drawing a small crowd of giggling schoolgirls. The mall was abuzz with noise and neon lights, the scent of popcorn and chaat mingling in the air. Meera held my hand tightly, her grip reassuring and protective as we edged closer to the glowing dance machines.

I watched her feet tapping on the ground, my face full of envy.

The older girls jumped and spun with such freedom—I could sense Meera’s longing, the way her body swayed unconsciously to the music, even as she pretended to be indifferent.

I urged her to give it a try.

"Idhar hi raho, samjhe? Kahin mat jaana," Meera instructed me seriously.

Her voice was firmer than usual, eyes narrowed with concern, echoing the caution of a mother rather than a sister. Still, the excitement in her voice was unmistakable.

I nodded hard.

I promised, crossing my heart, “Wapas nahi jaunga, Didi. Pakka.” I held onto the strap of her bag for good measure.

When my sister got on the machine, I realised she was especially good at it.

Her body moved with a rhythm and joy I’d never seen before—a grace that left me open-mouthed. Even the onlookers clapped and cheered. For once, Meera’s laughter rang out loud and carefree.

That free, radiant smile she wore while dancing—I had never seen it at home.

It was a smile that belonged to another world, where she wasn’t burdened with anyone else’s dreams or disappointments. In that moment, she seemed untouchable, a star in her own right.

At home, she was always silent and sensible, never smiling, like a little adult.

There, her eyes always carried a kind of sadness, lips pressed together, as if every joy had to be earned or rationed.

Meera was happy, and so was I.

For the first time, I felt proud—like I’d given her a rare gift, that small window of freedom, even if only for a few minutes.

She finished with another high score, and I ran up to cheer for her.

I jumped, clapping wildly, my voice echoing above the arcade’s din: “Didi, you’re the best! No one can beat you!” She blushed, tucking a stray hair behind her ear.

At that moment, a girl on the next dance machine happened to stumble and fall off.

The sudden commotion startled everyone—the music stopped, and time seemed to slow down as the girl lost her balance, lurching sideways.

I couldn’t dodge in time and was knocked hard to the ground.

My small body crumpled against the cold marble floor, a sharp pain radiating up my leg. The world spun, and for a second, all I heard was the ringing in my ears.

“Arjun!”

Meera’s voice cut through the noise, shrill and panicked, the sound of slippers slapping against the tiles as she ran to me.

She dropped to her knees, hands shaking as she cradled my face. “Are you okay? Arrey, show me where it hurts!” Her eyes brimmed with tears.

My knee was scraped over a large area, blood seeping out nonstop.

The sight of blood made me bawl louder, the pain growing sharper with every heartbeat. The crowd gathered, someone offered a handkerchief, but all I wanted was Meera.

Outside, a few neighbours who happened to be in the mall gathered at the gate, murmuring among themselves, "Ladkiyan toh ghar sambhalna seekh rahi hain, aur yeh dekho..." Their words buzzed in the air, adding to Meera's panic.

I had never been hurt this badly before, so I hugged my leg and cried so hard I couldn’t breathe.

Meera gently shushed me, her arms around me, rocking me back and forth as if I was a baby again. She tore a bit of her dupatta and pressed it to my wound, her own tears mingling with mine.

Meera took me home.

She half-carried, half-dragged me all the way, refusing every offer of help from strangers. By the time we reached home, she was breathless, sweat plastering her hair to her forehead.

My parents were furious when they saw my injury. They scolded Meera and even wanted to hit her.

The air was thick with anger and fear, my mother’s voice rising to a pitch I’d never heard. My father brandished his chappal, glaring at Meera as if she had committed an unpardonable sin. A few neighbours gathered at our gate, shaking their heads, their whispers stinging: "Dekho, ladki ki zimmedari hai na..."

I endured the pain in my knee and rushed out to block my dad, repeating again and again that it was my fault—I had begged my sister to take me out, and I hadn’t stood properly.

I sobbed, grabbing his leg, “Papa, please, mujhe hi daant lo! Didi ne toh mera khayal rakha…” But the words seemed to fall on deaf ears.

Dad still slapped my sister twice, pointing at her nose and saying harshly, “You two are one. If the brother makes a mistake, the sister gets punished too.”

His words rang with an old-world logic, the kind that weighed down girls more than boys in our society. Ma just watched silently, her lips trembling but saying nothing.

Meera covered her face, silent for a while, then finally nodded.

She didn’t cry or argue—just quietly accepted her fate, her little shoulders trembling with the effort to stay strong.

From then on, I never saw Meera play the dance machine again.

Even when we passed the mall, her eyes would skip over the arcade, lips set in a determined line. I tried to coax her, but she always shook her head, her smile not quite reaching her eyes.

I begged her to go, but she wouldn’t.

She just ruffled my hair, saying, “Bas, ho gaya. It’s not for us.” The music and laughter stayed locked behind the glass, out of reach.