Paying the price of being uncrowned crown prince
“He is your brother,” said my grandmother as I saw my mother enter the house with something wrapped in a piece of cloth; a toy I presumed. I was four years old then and soon realised that it was more than just a toy, or rather it was a part of her, very dear to her. Jealousy and competition were the natural corollary when I learnt that I would now have to sleep on a separate bed, and my sibling would get more of my mother than me.
My father was of a firm belief that rearing children was the mother’s job and his charter entailed handling larger matters of life. With mother being preoccupied with the newborn, I tried shifting my loyalties towards him to recover the emotional space encroached upon. It was surprising to see him transform into a dutiful parent when it came to his younger child. Perhaps, he was being protective given his second son’s ill health as compared to my hale heartiness.
It became imperative for me to create my own space by proving my worth. Good children are supposed to study hard and be obedient, one had learnt. My craving for recognition stimulated me to fare well in school. However, my excellent grades didn’t get the desired accolades, while baby steps of the younger one won him appreciation out of proportion.
Given his struggle with books, positive reinforcement was essential for his psyche, so was I told. I had to lead by example; my achievements were taken for granted, while the little one was given a handicap for being ‘chhota’. We brothers, however, got along well. Being a boarder I would wait eagerly for the vacations to play with him and he would invariably bid me goodbye with tears when I returned to school.
He was the only rival I couldn’t live without. I would defend him from the world outside the home; he stood by my side while dealing with elders at home. While I always envied the freedom of action he enjoyed, he carried a grudge for not being taken seriously by anyone; such are the perils of parenting.
The story continued even when we grew up and got married. All important matters of the family fell in my domain, while the charter of planning holidays, parties and matters leisure was taken over by him. “He is too casual to be entrusted with anything important,” I was told. It got onerous to be the perfect one and burden of expectations weighed heavy on me. Perhaps this was the price one had to pay for getting to live an extra four years with parents, a prized privilege denied to the second born.
“After my death donate my organs and...,” I abruptly interrupted my dad, asking him to desist from touching a depressing topic. “Then who else will do it?” he said. “You have two sons,” my sarcasm was unconcealable. “Well, if you have the right to light my pyre, this too becomes your responsibility.” Once again, I was reminded of being the “vali ahad” – Urdu equivalent for ‘crown prince’.
THE STORY CONTINUED EVEN WHEN WE GREW UP AND GOT MARRIED. ALL IMPORTANT MATTERS OF THE FAMILY FELL IN MY DOMAIN, WHILE THE CHARTER OF PLANNING HOLIDAYS, PARTIES AND MATTERS LEISURE WAS TAKEN OVER BY HIM.