Happy birthday, Mihir!

My brother recently turned 16. This post is in his honour.

I was 7 years old when you came into this world. It was an afternoon and I remember being excited as ajji and ajoba accompanied me to the hospital in a rickshaw.

When I saw you – a pink and wrinkly mass of flesh with a non-existent chin, I was kind of disappointed. A baby was supposed to be cute, right?

I spent the next day at the hospital. I wanted to “play” with you. But all you would do is cry, eat, pee, poo, sleep and stare. That was the scary thing about you: you could stare down any adult.

And then we brought you home.

Eventually, you grew a chin, put on a lot of adorable baby fat and learned to gurgle endearingly. I was in love.

When it was time to enrol you at school, I was happy to have you around on my ride to school. The rickshaw-uncle would invariable make you sit in the “dickey” behind the seat (you were tiny, so you fit!). Once, I remember, someone gave you a chocolate. As graceful as ever, you drooled… All over my shoulder!

The proud sister that I was, I would come visit you during the lunch break. And you would pretend to not recognise me and would go on playing with your friends.

At times, you really annoyed me.

It is sad but with time, so many sweet memories are forgotten. What stays behind is somewhat like a collage. Now you are driving on your little red scooter, then we are fighting over the TV remote. You are dressed as a mango in a fancy dress competition. You are also dressed as a saffron-clad, bearded sadhu for a school play. During your munja, your hair is shaved off and I tease you for looking like The Mask. We are on my Scooty and we stop at a kacchi dabheli stall (You always ask for a second helping). We are at Kalyan’s stuffing pani puri. (Is it strange that so many of my memories of us are related to food?)

As the protagonist of Rebecca says, if only we could bottle up memories and then be able to open and smell them when we wish.

I think neither me, nor you, saw time flying. Now you are 16. Tall like a bamboo.

And I must say, however embarrassing it might feel: I’m lucky to have you as my brother.

I like what you have grown up to be. I like that you are curious and questioning. Never lose that inquisitive twinkle in your eyes.

Lots of love and best wishes for the year to come.

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