Ever since I gained the ability to understand what people were saying, I’ve found myself on the receiving end of comments like, “Why does your younger sibling look so different from the older one?” or, “I doubt Rihaan will ever be as charming as Rohan.”
I suspect these remarks began roughly five years ago. My poor parents seemed trapped by the harshness of such judgments. I can still vividly recall the way my mother’s expression changed dramatically whenever she heard these thoughtless words.
One particularly uninformed aunt even went so far as to question whether I was adopted. “Rohan has his father’s features; he’s inherited your complexion, but Rihaan looks nothing like either of you,” she exclaimed, then lowering her voice conspiratorially; she leaned in to whisper in my mother’s ears, “Is he adopted?”
While I didn’t fully understand the term, it was clear that its implications darkened my mother’s mood significantly.
Dabbing at her teary eyes, she pulled me close and showered me with affection, trying to counteract that random woman’s callous comment.
The comparisons dogged me relentlessly.
On my first day at school, the teacher gave me a friendly pat on the back and said, “You’re Rohan’s brother, so you better hit the books. He’s always at the top of the class.”
Initially, I felt a swell of pride to be recognized as Rohan’s sibling. But that excitement quickly faded when I realized that everyone in the school knew me simply as “Rohan’s brother,” thanks to our shared mother. It wasn’t exactly hard to figure out who I was.
Though I didn’t relish being constantly compared to him, there was a part of me that secretly admired the title of being Rohan’s brother.
Rohan had established himself as an exceptional student.
He carried himself with such poise. After school, he would come home looking pristine, not a wrinkle on his shirt, while I resembled someone who had just come out of a wrestling match, with my hair tousled and my shirt half-tucked. Whether it was academics, personality, or social skills, I felt there was no way I could ever measure up to my older brother.
While it might seem a bit perplexing, all those who cleverly tried to use comparisons as a form of humor were in for a surprise. Their teasing didn’t bother me at all, and quite amusingly, it brought my brother and me closer each day. Each remark emphasizing our differences only strengthened our bond because he genuinely was a wonderfully loving person.
When I faced challenges with math, he stepped in as a patient tutor. Suddenly, multiplication and division became a breeze with his guidance. I could count on him to help me finish my notes and assignments while I lost myself dribbling a basketball outside.
If my dribbling was commendable, my shooting skills were phenomenal. I became a three-point shooting expert. I’ll admit my hidden talent might have remained unnoticed if it weren’t for my brother. Every evening, he would take me to the basketball court, where he played casually, but he also recognized my potential and spoke to our school’s sports coach on my behalf.
After that, the sky was the limit.
Although Dad had voiced concerns more than once that my fervor for basketball might distract me from my studies, Rohan came to my defense, arguing that grades aren’t the sole determiner of success in life.
Before long, the glass case in our home was filled with medals celebrating my outstanding performances in basketball competitions. Rohan made sure to display my medals alongside his academic awards.
I always asked for my brother to be there during my matches. His cheers amplified my drive to excel even more.
I was heartbroken when I found out that my selection for the state team would coincide with his college campus interview. I would miss his esteemed presence in the stands.
“You’ll have to learn to play matches without Rohan in the audience,” my mother gently patted my cheeks. “You never know—he could end up in another city or even overseas. His grades are exceptional,” Dad said, offering his well-wishes for my selection.
If Nervousness had a certain scent, I was likely exuding it. Even though I knew all the strategies of my opponents for the day, the jitters still rattled me. It dawned on me that Rohan’s presence in the gallery significantly lifted my spirits. My mom was right: I needed to learn how to perform well on my own, with or without him there. But was that even possible?
I felt a warm hand on my shoulder and turned around, surprised to see my brother.
“What are you doing here?” I asked, bewildered. “What about your campus interview?”
He smiled and replied, “I can always find a job later, but the chance to make it to the state team comes only once a year. I want to be here to support you during this selection.”
Tears quickly filled my eyes, and I couldn’t tell if they were from happiness or an overwhelming rush of emotions. I worried the coach might read them as nervous.
As expected, the match proved to be tough. Every time I had the ball, my brother would shout, “Go for those three-pointers! You’ve got this!” His encouraging words seemed like a spell, and the ball smoothly swished through the net, met by jubilant cheers of “Hurrah!” I could see my brother leaping out of his chair with excitement.
Free throws had always been my downfall, often missing the basket entirely. But to my surprise, today I didn’t miss a single one.
“Rohan sacrificed his campus interview for my chance to shine, and I can’t let that be for nothing,” I thought, the mantra echoing in my mind.
Then, when they announced my name among those selected, the loudest cheer came from my brother.
If I had ever wished for a world without an elder brother constantly challenging my very essence, I must be labelled a fool. But I don’t think I have ever wished that. He was my most fantastic support, and I wouldn’t trade that for anything.
This story was published on Spillwords August 14th, 2024