Why did I have to endure the chaos of a younger sibling?
My mother’s delightful smile had disappeared, and Dad stopped our games of bat and ball when Sushant arrived.
How I cherished my mother’s melodious laughter; to me, she was the most beautiful woman in the world, and my dad was undeniably handsome. Yet, since Sushant was born, my mother—a hairstylist—had neglected her own hair, leaving it in disarray with loose curls falling across her face.
Though I was just eight years old when Sushant was born, it was apparent to me that Dad’s once-sophisticated style had faded. There were days when his tie hung askew, and his outfit colors clashed spectacularly.
Family and friends looked at Sushant with pity, their expressions clearly saying, ‘You seem different.’ I understood what they meant. He was indeed different, and because of that, I felt like I had lost my parents’ love. My resentment towards him grew stronger.
My parents doted on Sushant, encouraging him to eat and coaxing him to speak, repeating words like ‘ma,’ ‘baba,’ and ‘dada’ in front of him. My joy knew no bounds when he struggled to say any of those words. But then I would see my mother’s teary eyes and my father’s frustrated face, desperately attempting to hold back his own tears, and those moments tugged at my heart. To a ten-year-old, anyone who brought trouble to their parents was a villain, and Sushant fit that role perfectly, becoming the target of my anger.
I felt a fresh wave of hatred as I approached Sushant on my thirteenth birthday. Admittedly, I wasn’t eager to share my birthday cake with him, but Mom had asked me to. I detested how he drooled, especially after a meal, yet I couldn’t refuse my mother. If feeding him a slice of cake made her happy, I could manage to tolerate him for a few minutes.
He sat in his wheelchair by the window when I offered him the creamy cake—my first time speaking to him in five years. He grinned as he smeared icing across his mouth, and just as I was about to leave in disgust, I heard it: ‘Daa….daaaa…… daaaddaaa.’ My mother rushed in, tears of joy glistening in her eyes. Dad lit up at the sound of Sushant calling out to me. The house rang with jubilation for the first time in years.
At that moment, a rush of love for my little brother overwhelmed me. He had restored my parents’ smiles. Ignoring the cake stains on my new dress, I hugged him tightly. ‘You may be different, but that’s what people think. Yes, you are different, and I love you. Call me dada again,’ I said, playfully nudging him.
His infectious giggles echoed throughout the house.