The Only Boy Worth Crying Over.

I’m pretty sure I spent majority of my childhood hating him. He practically tortured me. He pushed me around. He called me names. He pulled my hair. He once even stuck a Twizzler in my eye. And it seemed no matter how many times I yelled, or cried, or put up a fight, he would never back down. He was ruthless.
My brother, Ashwin, four years my senior, was always right. He was smarter than me. He was faster than me. He seemed talented at everything. And I resented him for that. No matter how hard I tried, I could never reach his level. I counted down the years until his graduation.
Growing up was hard enough and I certainly did not need his criticism. I remember second grade. I remember standing at the bus stop on those bitter-cold Michigan winter mornings while all the other kids waited comfortably in their mothers’ toasty minivans. Our mom worked long hours, often leaving early in the morning and not returning until dusk. She would always try to pack our lunches the night before, but it was our responsibility to get ourselves up and ready for our day at school.
I remember Ashwin’s stern voice. “You have to get up now! You’re gonna miss your bus.” Mom had long been out the door and Ashwin was instructed to make sure I got up on time. It was school picture day. It was my most dreaded day of the year. I was so awkward looking. All the other girls in my class were small and fair-skinned, and I was a frumpy Indian girl with frizzy hair and crooked teeth.

“I need mom to get me ready!”
“Mom left, just throw something on and go.”
“I don’t know what to wear though!”
“Who cares, just hurry up!”

I then did what any young distressed girl would do. I hugged my stuffed dog. I fell on the floor. And I cried.

What followed is something that still shocks me a little bit today. Instead of letting me suffer and telling me to grow up, Ashwin sat down next to me, wrapped his arms around me, and calmly said, “don’t worry. I’ll take care of you.”

And that’s exactly what he did.

I look back at that second grade picture and I remember everything about that moment. My ugly purple polka dotted dress. My hair pulled back into a disheveled ponytail. And my beaming smile reflecting how lucky I felt to have someone whom I could rely on. I felt like the most beautiful girl in the world that day.