Mariya’s bright-voiced stories.
Mariya became even paler, except beneath her eyes. She grew
violent towards my grandparents and me, grumbling when served a dish
she didn’t like, refusing to eat even her favorite desserts. Mariya pulled
my hair and scratched my face in our play throughout the day. She began
to tease me for my height, the softness around my belly, the hair above
my lip. She laughed when I couldn’t swing as high as she could—shrill,
almost forced. And when I did catch up to her once, on the tenth day,
she screamed, grabbing for my chains and shaking them until we both
slipped from the tire seats and onto the ice. I landed on my tailbone,
smarting from the impact. Mariya sat up on the gravel, a smile playing
at her lips. My arms shook; I noticed a fresh rip in my coat. For the first
time in my life, I raised my hand and slapped her, fast and hard along the
cheek, my hand catching on the sharp bone, slipping along her nose. She
rolled onto me and punched back, and we continued like this, lashing
and shaking, until our Naana discovered us sobbing and bloody nosed,
apart in the snowy gravel.
“Sisters shouldn’t fight like this,” he said as Naani slathered an
Indian-brand antiseptic on our cuts, pressed tissues to our scratched faces,
“And you two, almost adults. Jawaan women like you should behave better.”
“But she started it,” I said, thrusting my pointing finger towards
her, “she always starts it! She gets away with everything!” Mariya crossed
her arms, puckered her mouth to her nose. Before I could stop myself, I
added, “She should be thankful for everything we do for her.”
Mariya’s hand flew to her mouth and Naani gasped. Naana
grabbed me by my shoulders.
“You cannot say this. You should be grateful for your two healthy,
living parents.” He turned to Mariya. “Be kind to your sister, she is a
child still.”
I stormed away, slamming the door behind me to the guestroom
Mariya and I shared.
In the evening, I saw Naana scoop Mariya’s small frame onto his
lap. She rested her head on his chest, crying quietly. The injustice of it
made me feel like taking a scissors to all of Mariya’s things, all of my toys
and books she had taken for her own. Mariya, even in her instigations, in
her bullying antics, remained perfect. Sick-mothered Mariya could do no
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