On the day my sister died, I think some part of me left the world too.
Three days before my sister died, my parents woke at 4:00 am, haggard, and checked to make sure I was asleep. I have forgotten how many times it has been now when I shove my phone under my pillow and shut my eyes, yet still somehow fool them. They grabbed a bag, and my mother put some milk and coffee into a flask as a sorry excuse for caffeine. They left for a three hour drive to my sisters house, my uncle’s house, and I bet they had a great time talking to her and walking with her and feeding her and holding her while she was still alive. The fire in my chest swells, but the knot in my throat only tightens.
Two days before my sister died, they came back from a sleepover at her house, and spared us a glance and an apology, even though I’m the only one who knows how my little sister shook the house at 5:00 am when she noticed they weren’t there. They don’t know how I calmed her, then the overwhelming panic that swelled in my grandparents eyes. They don’t know how I had to smile even though I can’t and shouldn’t and didn’t want to. They don’t know the number of blatant excuses I tolerate from my grandparents, or the ones I had to give my little sister to keep her beautiful smile alive. Instead of exploding through, I played up the Decently Okay Indian Daughter and simply smiled. There is a sea of flames searing my heart now, and the knot has somehow multiplied in my stomach.
The day before my sister died, I walked in while my parents video called her, and they couldn’t exactly refuse if the people on the other end heard, so they had to turn the phone my way. She was sleeping though, so I see a bit of her back where the shirt we bought together rode up, and her tired, closed eyes. Her chest barely rises up and down, and even that, I don’t know if it’s her, or my uncle’s trembling hands. The fragility of her sleeping body, which I haven’t seen since she was bedridden three months back, breaks something in me. I swallowed back a rolling sob trying to wrench its way out of my mouth, and smiled. I think the fire in me has burned its way out, because I cannot feel my smile, although it is cold and I am numb, so perhaps it is only me who believes it is still there.
The night before my sister died, I dreamt of a day, three months ago, when I had walked all the way to her university to pick her up. She introduced me to her friend, who treated her like glass even then, and I whispered in my sister’s ear that I approved of her. I remember the way she smiled, big enough to show the chipped teeth, and how her eyes lit up, full of youth and love and life. We had gone to share a mint chocolate chip and caramel ice cream together while window shopping in T. Nagar. I woke up with the taste of heavy cream and chocolate mint coating my tongue and sliding down my throat. I sat down for breakfast, and it turned into ash.
On the day my sister died, I didn’t get to attend her funeral. I didn’t get to see her be laid across the silk cloth on the wooden logs, then covered by them. I didn’t get to see her burn, hotter than the flames in me, into real ash. I didn’t get to see her be stuffed in a pot and tossed into the oceans. I didn’t get to see them cry, the skies, the earth trembling at this loss, or my family, breaking. When they came home that night, I saw them. I saw their eyes. I saw their tears and their fear and their pain. I saw it all, and after a moment, I sat them down and served them the idlis I made just then, with last night’s leftover chutney, and I smiled.
The fire threatening to consume died down, just a little bit, today. I’m glad it’s not ripping me up anymore. I’m glad for the knots that are unravelling, my little sister clinging to my legs, looking up at me, for my family eating, and for the smiles on their faces, slowly turning real.
On the day my sister died, I think some part of me left the world too. But maybe, even if that part of me can’t be replaced, I’ll find a way to fill it.
800 words
