The Sister

Pia and I share the good stuff about being siblings, sans the crabby fights, sans sullen silences, sans even the clothes, shoes, and hairpins. We share affection that is easy; secrets that are uncanny; boyfriend issues that are past their prime, songs that are ours. We share without relenting, without giving in. We grew up in different cities, had different lives, but Pia and I were bound together by something irreplaceable - an invisible thread that had for yards a zillion missives unwritten…missives of stories of sweltering summers in Bengal; of Toffee - her big bowl, her red brush and steel comb; of me having more dog hair on my pullover than hair on my head; of my big failures, my bigger triumphs…Pia has it all wrapped up her curious curly hair, her podgy palms and her trademark “talk to me”. However, our interludes today are of a different kind. The threadbare Enid Blytons have been replaced by hoity-toity décor magazines. Our missives are not unwritten anymore; they are typed furiously at all odd intervals on slippery android phones. Our banter though is still mad, sparkling and our foibles several. Perhaps, Pia and I are similar…but the sameness is exhilarating.