How I Wish I Had a Sister!

 

Growing up in the seventies and eighties, our wardrobes had a simple logic—two types of clothes: one for home, and the other, bahar pahenne wale kapde—the designated outfits for going out. These weren’t ‘party wear’ in today’s sense of glitter and brands. A ‘party’ back then could be anything—your cousin’s wedding, a neighbor’s birthday, or a family function. And wearing those special clothes was a treat in itself.

Getting new clothes was a carefully timed event. If there was a wedding in the extended family—say, a maasi, mama, or chachu getting married—you might just get lucky. But even then, it depended on your pecking order among your same-gender siblings. If you were the eldest, good for you. If not, you probably ended up with someone else’s hand-me-downs.

And we, believe it or not, didn’t really mind it. Not until someone (read: a sibling seeking revenge for some petty fight) decided to remind you loudly at a gathering that your ‘new’ dress was, in fact, their old one. Sometimes, this cruel reminder would be delivered with a smirk, a pointed finger, or worse, in front of friends. It stung, but you couldn’t really complain. That was just how it was.

As the only girl among four siblings, I initially thought I had hit the jackpot. While my youngest brother wore hand-me-downs from the older two, I had my own set of clothes—no sharing, no fighting. I used to secretly thank God for not giving me a sister. Imagine sharing clothes with another girl, I thought. Or worse, handing over my favorites once I’d outgrown them.

But that gratitude didn’t last long.

Being the only female child came with its own strange setbacks. Clothes, for instance, were considered a wasteful investment when there was no one to inherit them later. My mother would say with a practical air, “If only you had a younger sister, we wouldn’t mind buying more. But these go to waste once you outgrow them. So, let’s buy just one now, we’ll get another next time.”

And that “next time” was always just… next time.

I still remember sulking quietly after one such verdict. That day, the desire for a sister was very real.

But the feeling hit its peak during birthday parties. Those get-togethers were beautifully modest—homemade kheer, halwa, or gulab jamun; potato chips from a local bakery; orange squash or Rooh Afza; and lots of giggling over passing-the-parcel. The excitement started days before and built up like a festival.

So, when I got invited to a friend’s birthday, I was thrilled. Until the permission hurdle showed up.

My mother had one condition: “Take your youngest brother along.”

It was her default clause. If I wanted to go to any gathering, he had to accompany me as a mini bodyguard. He was small, clumsy, and sometimes afraid of the very stray dogs I’d be shielding him from. But my mother thought he was my security detail. And without agreeing to this arrangement, there was no party.

I didn’t want to take him. None of my friends ever dragged their brothers along. If only he were a she, I thought. Maybe I wouldn’t mind as much. Perhaps we could have matched dresses or shared secrets. Maybe I wouldn’t feel like I was babysitting.

But that wasn’t the case.

So, I gave in. I said yes, because a party with conditions was better than no party at all.

And that evening, as I adjusted the one carefully chosen dress I had for such occasions and looked at my brother trying to adapt his crooked belt, I sighed and thought, God, how I wish I had a sister.

Looking back now, I smile at the absurd logic of those days, the fairness of frugality, the unspoken sibling rivalries, and the strange companionship I shared with my tagalong brother.

I never did get that sister I longed for, but over time, I gained something else: stories worth telling. Stories stitched with fabric, old and new, borrowed and passed down—not just of clothes, but of a childhood lived richly, even in its simplicity.

And today, when I see siblings bickering or sharing outfits on Instagram, I still think wistfully, How I wish I had a sister! But then again, I had brothers, and that, in its own chaotic way, was a different adventure altogether.