Sisterly bouts

“You completely disrespected me. Could you have not waited when I asked you to? Are you stupid” asks Anusha.

“I was already three minutes late! I didn’t want to be late for my doctor’s appointment. Punctuality should not be a crime. You’ve blown something tiny out of proportion. You’re certifiably insane,” say I.

“I was three steps behind you. You’re an asshole. That’s what you’ve been all this while”.

This is the last of what I hear as I leave Anusha and our audience of many at the Kauvery Hospital Pharmacy before I storm off in a huff. We are hours away from what are supposedly two intense, rain-filled days. There is a scramble on the streets to get home. I am walking through a maze of people and vehicles on a footpath.

Who the fuck does she think she is and why does she think she can talk to me that way?

A nasty spite fuels my deliriously feverish body. I have decided to walk in anger through a tight road below a flyover. That will show her. I can do anything I want. But the truth is, an occasional whimper escapes my mouth and scares the zomato delivery man who’s scooter has now caused me to parkour my way out of the pavement. Traffic is bad. I could whisper in his ear, punch or kiss him. That is all the distance we have. What have I done to deserve these words? Can she not understand that being punctual is important? Who gives a fuck about her auto troubles and her change.

The wind picks up pace, clouds roll towards me and the drama soaks in. I curse her. I pity myself. So much. Oh, so much. I don’t have a room to cry. Why are people calling me things. Why are people saying the worst things that I believe about myself to my face? I don’t do that with the lot of you. Am I better or worse than you for that? Should I just leave everything and become an aesthete? Can I be a famous one? There’s money to be made. ‘Dost’ instead of ‘Amma’. I need to be relatable. Why is this happening to me.

She calls. I ignore it. “Can you just come back and take an auto. Or are you stupid?” reads her text. A hummer passes by me and I wonder if this stranger would offer to drop me home. Only some divine act of kindness can save me now. He instead leaves me with a gift of a new, dirty splash across my kurta. Well… her kurta. Yesss. It’s ruined now. Fuck, but it’s on me. Will she kill me? Should I care?

Within 200 metres of leaving my sister stranded, some realisations have been made. I am now a drenched, dirty, asshole who is somehow also the loser because I have shed the first tear. I have lived a full tragedy. Time for declarations.

I have lost the first of our sisterly bouts.

Anusha 1 — Sanju 0.

Anusha, to me, is a ghost. A ghoul, if you will. I don’t know where she is. I don’t give a flying fuck too. There is a cute childhood photo of ours in my room which I block with chart paper because I can’t bear to see her face. She asks some inconsequential question but my eyes do not even attempt to meet hers. With Amma, who is in the same room as her, I speak as though we are the only two habitants. I will not comment on the Gilmore Girls episode she is watching (Dean has just broken up with Rory). I am not invested in her life anymore. I will cease to engage.

“Do you want maggi, Amma?”.

It is dark and rainy. I do not want to sound like an opulent English lord during times of war and strife around the world, but we have stocked up rather poorly for the weather. There is no snack, only little coffee powder and two cubes of maggi for three residents. How do we survive two predicted rainy days, pray tell me.

“Can you make for me also?” she asks gently as I cut onions, chillies, ginger and garlic to add meat to the meal. It is my first non-rasam meal in days. I am excited about the variety.

“Yeah, cool,” I say, acting heedless and dispassionate.

“Do you need any help with cutting?”

“No, I’m fine. Thanks,” I say.

Oil, jeera, mustard seeds, onion, chillies, minced ginger and garlic, turmeric powder, red chilli powder, garam masala, maggi masala. A tomato would’ve been nice if only we had decided to be prudent early on. But amchur should do the trick. Stir. Water. Maggi. Fry an egg.

“It’s nice and hot,” she says.

It’s not my best.

“Thanks,” I respond.

Silence ensues.

Is it safe to say I won this round?

Yes.

Sanju 1 — Anusha 1.

“You know how you said you feel like you’re sometimes begging to be loved in your romantic relationships? That’s what it feels like when I ask you to hang out with me. It feels like you just don’t want me in your life. I feel so rejected by you. I can’t believe I am saying this but I think I just have to make peace with the fact that we were once close but aren’t anymore,” she says.

Sometimes I wonder if she was born thick headed and cute at the same time. She has always been beautiful when she has been angry. A teary glare would fill her eye. She would be brimming with the nastiest words. The most declarative statements. The fiercest of battles. As a child, she would literally turn red with rage. It is why Amma and Megha call her ‘Thakkali’ (tomato) till date.

Anusha holds back tears.“I have been here seven months. Do you know what it has been like? It feels like Amma is my only friend”. I launch into what she calls a ‘debate explanation’. “I can’t compete with your words,” she declares. To her, I simply do not love her enough. To her, I simply cannot be bothered to make plans with her. To her, I do not care.

What do I tell her now? Should I explain that I thoroughly enjoy splitting our bedroom in half as we used to back in school? My books and her baking material are all back in one place. Should I tell her that I like colonising her side of the table and acting like it is mine. Well, considering I use the table the most, it is mine. Must I explain that despite the fact that a full door separates us, her shower concerts are terrifyingly loud, wildly entertaining and also, mostly endearing. When Sabrina Carpenter comes on, Anusha’s voice is full of plea and counter-productive femininity. But when Bye Bye Bye plays, she feels it in her bones.

“I know that I can’t take no more
It ain’t no lie
I want to see you out that door
Baby bye bye bye” she yells.

Should I tell her that she should be honoured that she is among the few people in the world I would go, breathe on her face and ask if I need mint? Does she not realise that she knows nearly all my secrets? Should I just tell her that I am excited to figure out the nature of our camaraderie and relationship as two adult siblings in our childhood bedroom surrounded by school paraphernalia?

“Can you just give me some space and time? I feel like going further into a cocoon nowadays. I feel like because so many people are saying so many things to and above me, I have lost my voice. I am scrambling to find it. I honestly don’t know what to do but I am trying. I assure you,” I say instead.

Silence.

Sob.

Silence.

Sob.

Silence.

Silence.

Silence.

“It was boring not talking to you for two days”.

Sanju 2 — Anuchu 1.

(I’m kidding. It’s equal).