Updated: Aug 8, 2022
Rakshabandhan is upon us. It’s a day the mass media spends specially huge amounts of time harping about the special bond that special brothers and special sisters specially share.
No, really. They do that.
Actually, it’s a day a sister ties a silk thread on her brother’s wrist (a symbol of the aforementioned special bond) and he promises to take care of her forever. The thing is, I’ve always found the saccharine sweetness of the whole thing a little cloying.
Because about 21 years ago, a real pain-in-the-ass entered my home, my family and my life, displacing me as Royal Princess of All She Surveys and Supreme Holder of Everybody’s Attention and Affection.
It wasn’t pretty.
What helped the matter enormously was that this little perennially bawling brat was delightfully gullible and fairly dumb. What didn’t, was that everybody thought that was charming and cute.
So, what followed was about 15 years of war – pranks, complaints, sarcasm, fights, fights, fights, arguments, yelling, more pranks, belittling comments, a stray blow or two and the urgent need for a referee.
Now, this is the part where there’s a danger of this post becoming very Hallmark-y. Because, this is the ideal place where I can say, “But now that we’ve grown up, we share a loving relationship full of understanding and mutual respect, a relationship that is truly a special bond.”
I won’t, though – that would be lying.
Fact is, my brother is still a major pain in the ass and he and I still have raging, raving fights that shred the peace of the household to smithereens. I mock him, he yells back and the only reasons it doesn’t come to fisticuffs is because I’m not a man and because I don’t fight fair.
But. Still. Even so. The fact also is that he’s been there for me when no friend was around, he’d willingly take on a guy twice his size to defend me and because in my own twisted sort of way, I do care for him (which is why I kick your ass so often, Einstein).
So. Because this is a special day, brother, I wish you a lifetime of happiness. And if you touch my Terry Pratchetts again, you’re dead meat.