Looking Back, and Forward: The Sister Edition

Today, my sister starts college.

I look back at the girl she was in tenth grade, struggling with subjects she didn't like, her temper flashing at the merest mention of academics, driven to tears by a teacher who made a particularly unkind comment about her being nothing like me. Contrast that with the cheery girl who scored A-pluses in all subjects in both eleventh and twelfth, and you'd think this is a story of someone who learned to score well.

It is not.

That bit is an incidental subplot to the story of a girl who made her choices in a constructive learning environment, and worked her ass off to redeem herself in her own eyes, astonishing her family in the process.

Clearly the smarter one, she chose Commerce and moved to a government school after tenth, one which boasted of facilities at par with (or even better than) a lot of private schools in the city, having been adopted by a public-private initiative called PRISM. And boy, did she reveal her true colours there.

Finally free from my oppressive shadow, finally exploring subjects she could relate to, finally learning under teachers who saw her spark and nurtured it with care and the occasional admonishing, Hiba bloomed into a creature I was beginning to recognize again, after the soul-crushing ordeal that was her tenth grade at Presentation.

And it was not just her old self that was back; she was reforging herself in many ways. Along with a select few students, she started becoming the face of Nadakkavu GHSS at various official events, be it organizing a reception for the chief minister, skyping with students from a UK school during a cultural exchange initiative, or just emceeing for school celebrations. She helped her new friends, some previously educated in Malayalam medium schools, find their feet in the English language. She joined her school's NSS team, going on sanitation drives and rain-walks, with a winter camp to top it all off. She cheered on, without any reserve, her crazily talented classmates as they conquered sports meets and dramatics and a host of other extra-curricular events. She even joined her school oppana team, and the memory of her going up on stage at the sub-district youth festival is one I'll cherish for ages.

In other words, she shone. Fiercely. Bravely. Happily, and with a renewed faith in herself.  For the most part, my parents and I were mute witnesses to this transformation. Her teachers and friends contributed a great deal, grounding her in a community and giving her perspective, but at the end of the day, this story belongs to her.

And today, as she begins a new chapter, it is not the academic turnaround that I am proud of. It is of her resolve, of her courage, of her juvenile sense of humour. I'm proud of her hard work, of her whip-smart retorts to my oft-nagging mom, of her ability to recognize her privilege and channel it for good, with humility. I'm jealous of her almost-diabolical power to wrap dad around her pinkie finger, and her general "people skills." Above all, I am proud beyond words that she stood up for herself.

So, on her first day of college, here's a toast to my absolutely fabulous sister. May the years ahead bring you more joy, much as they will bring you grief. May you hold on to your self-worth, even as the many lives waiting for you will challenge it in ways you didn't think was possible. May you find new dreams, if life extinguishes your old ones. May you create fullfilment on your terms.

But mostly, I hope you move forward with your trademark exuberance and generosity, brightening up people's lives by that much more, staying true to your name: Hiba, God's gift to us all.

To My Baby Cousin

And in the face of new worlds, each more bewildering than the last, we hold on to each other. Cling, even. We survive. We create. We live.

That's all there is to this story, and all there ever will be.

Of course there is death and destruction, and it will come, but first there is the living. The breathing. Your tiny chest falling and rising against mine, not at all in tandem. The smiling in your sleep. And god, the learning! It's been just five months and you already know that the sound 'Azrah' has something to do with you; head lifted, eyes curious, you turn towards your mom, your sister, the horde of delighted cousins calling out to you again and again, just to watch you perk up.

That Azrah is your name, and that it wields the power to shape much of your life, you will learn later. For now, all that matters is you know those sounds, the ah and the za and the ra, woven and unwoven and rewoven, somehow belong to you. You will settle your being into their crevices and spurt through the many cracks, and you will make the name your own someday, navigating the warp and weft of it as you do with the world you find yourselves in.

Sometimes none of it will make sense to you, this beautiful name, your terrible world, this lovely world, your horrible name. It is astounding, your survival, a  lump of tissue and fluid and wildly beating heart, in a world where the sky never ends, the earth runs deep, and loneliness rings the edges of the known universe.

You will be born into new worlds as old ones burn down, freeze over, crumble around your feet, or merely fade away like a season. From the ash and dust and memory of each world, a new one will rise, as you once did, caked in blood and hope. Fragile, fierce.

And in the face of these new worlds, each more promising than the last, we hold on to each other. Cling, even. We survive. We create. We learn. We love, in an unconditional that cannot pretend to be anything else, in conditionals that think themselves unconditional.

We live. Fierce, but fragile, we live.

That's all there is to this story, all there might be.

Right here, right now, in the quiet of a house on the threshold of a shared dream, that is all there is.

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I rarely write prose these days, save for the very sporadic journal entries which will never see the light of day if I can help it. What prose that I do put out in public are mostly captions that sometimes end up as long-form-ish pieces. This one was written for a photo that my sister clicked a few months back, of my baby cousin asleep on my chest. I decided I'd share it here because it remains very close to my heart.