While I personally don’t recall the exact moment my parents told me I was going to have a younger brother, I laugh every time I watch the VHS tapes. I was so upset — almost in tears. At the time, I was deep in my Barbie era, and all I could think about was not having a sister to dress up and play with; though, to his dismay, my brother, Krish, did end up going through that phase with me anyway.
When Krish started going to kindergarten at my elementary-middle school, I dreaded the first day. I knew there were going to be comments made; out of the 1000 students spanning nine grades, someone was bound to connect the dots between the two brown kids with the last name Mendpara.
But, the moment we stepped past the school’s gates, it almost felt exactly how it was supposed to be. I absolutely loved looking for him during lunch, tying his shoes during recess, making sure he found his classroom in the mornings. We would stroll through the school hand in hand, exactly how siblings should be, and everyone ate it up. If I could’ve had a sash that said “KRISH’S OLDER SISTER,” I would’ve donned it proudly; unfortunately, I don’t think he would’ve been too fond of it.
I always say that, after I was born, all I did was wait for him — three and a half years of waiting. I wasn’t a full person until I became Krish’s big sister. I don’t think I will ever find a person that can make me as angry as he does but also make me laugh the way he does. We’d yell and fight and shout until our mom would beg for us to stop, but, after that, he would come and sit on the floor of my room and we’d talk and laugh for hours, almost as if nothing had happened at all. That’s how siblings simply are: merciless and affectionate, always seeking to hurt but never without love.
There’s a depth to the bond between siblings that defies explanation, a kind of closeness that is built over years of shared moments, both joyous and painful. Krish has been the mirror through which I’ve seen my own growth, the one person who can evoke every emotion I’m capable of feeling.
In fact, I think I’ve only ever perceived the world through pairs because I have only ever known to count for two. At times, it almost felt as though I had a mini me — two oranges, two lunchboxes, two backpacks lined up near the door. But, like most things in life, a perfect pair doesn’t always last.
I was always afraid of what would happen the day I couldn’t leave my room to go see him right next door. When it was time for me to leave for college, I remember taking photos of my entire home, a place that I had cherished my whole life — my parents’ mango trees and garden, my mom’s soccer van, my room. Buried in the stream of photos in my camera roll, one would find multiple photos of Krish.
To quote Brenna Yovanoff, I always want to tell Krish that I love him, and not in the complicated way I love my parents or my friends, but in a simple way I never had to think about. I love him like I love breathing.
College was harder than expected. I didn’t text my family as much, our daily phone calls spanned the five-minute walk from my dorm to Brody Learning Commons, the texts from my brother collected at the bottom of my phone. For some time, I felt like I had forgotten the role I had kept with honor for 18 years. The distance between us became more than just physical; there were fewer calls, fewer texts. I wondered if we were drifting apart, or if this was just how life inevitably unfolds. It was unsettling, this realization that we weren’t the duo we once were. I thought being Krish’s sister would always feel the same, but nothing ever stays untouched by time.
Recently, I asked him if he felt our relationship had changed since I moved. In typical, 17-year-old-boy fashion, he just shrugged.
"You're busy, I'm busy. It’s not a big deal, don’t worry too much.”
I thought his response would upset me, or make me snarl at his lack of emotion, but instead, it felt like a weight lifting off my chest. There was no anger, no resentment, just an unspoken understanding. He wasn’t mad at me for being busy, for not being around as much. He was okay with it, and that made me feel like, despite everything, I hadn’t failed him as a sister. His shrug was full of forgiveness, an unspoken reassurance that he didn’t need me to be perfect.
For a while, I had been caught up in feeling like I’d let him down — wondering if he’d noticed how much less I’d been around, how my texts had come less frequently and if he’d held that against me. But he wasn’t keeping score. Somehow, despite the distance, our bond hadn’t weakened.
It wasn’t the same as it used to be, but maybe it didn’t need to be.
Life is busy, and, in Baltimore, I am so many things. But, I’ve learned that, no matter how much changes, being Krish’s sister is something that will always be enough.
Aashi Mendpara is a senior from Orlando, Fla. studying Neuroscience and Medicine, Science and the Humanities. Her column shares reflections on her childhood, growing relationships, getting older and navigating life’s changes.
