Happy Rakshabandhan,
my piddi Dhechu 🫏

You are older than me, budhiya. Barely, but you are. You are also the braver one. The fighter. The wiser one. The one who gets it done while I am still deciding whether to. And still, somehow, you come out little. A pretty little baby sister. Little only to me, which is the only place it counts. Piddi hai tu, piddi.

Right now is probably as close as we are ever going to live. The same city. The same few kilometres. And it still comes down to next week. Next time. After this one thing is done. Later it will not even be this much. Lives that refuse to line up, distances nobody chose, everything pulling in its own direction. I don't think it ever sorts itself neatly into one place. I will keep putting the effort in anyway. Not because it is likely. Because I want it, and you have heard me say that enough times by now. I have never needed a better reason than wanting.

And however far apart it ends up putting us, the thing underneath is not up for negotiation. The love. The bond. The Laughs . The Cheers. The Joy. The care. Distance can have the meetings. It can have the calendars, the missed calls, the years. It does not get this. I hope all of it stays exactly as it is, for as long as there is a you and a me.

So this is the part I want you to keep. Whatever the distance turns out to be, kilometres, or weeks of not talking, or a fight neither of us has finished, or just a stretch where we are not at our best, I am a call away. Not the ordinary kind. The kind where someone says I need you and that is the entire sentence. No context. No explaining yourself first. Not flawlessly, I know. Some days you will be shouting and I will not turn around, and that one is mine to own. But when it matters, say it. I will be there.

Some days I am odd. Some days reckless. Some days just flat, for no reason I can hand you. You have seen all. You stayed through every one of them. I have never properly thanked you for that, and I am not about to start doing it gracefully now.

You were not handed to me. No family tree did the work. Nobody signed anything. We chose it, and then chose it again, and have gone on choosing it ever since. Nothing about it was automatic. All of it was on purpose. That is the part that makes it real.

Life gives out magic in pieces. A stage that changes you. A day that turns out to matter. A thing that goes right when it had no business going right. I have had a few of those. None of them are you. None of them is my sister, and none of them ever will be. Above every achievement I manage, above every person I have met or am ever going to meet, you are the one that counts. If you ever catch yourself wondering whether something is coming that could edge you out of that place, it is not. I went looking for a better word than magic. I came back with nothing.

Honestly, I don't know how an elder brother is meant to be. I don't even know how a brother is meant to be. Nobody handed me the instructions. Nobody ever gets them. People just grow and work out what it means for them: different people, different meanings, the same relation. So I have been guessing the whole way. When to push and when to leave you alone. When to say the thing and when to hold it. When you want me closer and when you just want me quiet nearby. And I get it wrong. Not probably. Certainly, and more often than you let on. Every time you tell me that was not what you needed, that I should have understood better, I listen, and I know you are right. So keep telling me. Keep teaching me exactly that way. You are my little sister, and I will keep listening, which is not a sentence I hand out often. And if I ever do something that lands wrong, come straight to me with it. Do not sit on it. I would rather have the conversation than the distance.

So, the thread. Nobody put it in our hands at birth. Nobody asked you to tie it. Nobody asked me to hold out my wrist. We picked it up ourselves, and I am still learning how to hold it properly. I expect I will be learning for a long time yet. What I can tell you is that it holds.

Whatever life asks of you, you are not carrying it on your own. Not this year. Not the ones after it. Not while I am here.