Mark and Steve

To say that he was the cheese and I was the chalk would be an understatement. To say that he was Mark and I was Steve would be a closer approximation, nonetheless stretching it a bit far.

He has grace. I have grit. He was prolific. He still is. I was the typically sedate. He made it look so easy. For him, it was just a question of when. The how was clear and so were the results. I was cocky and definitely lacked the ability he had. Ironically enough, we both started from the same room. And reached different horizons in life.

It had to be this way. There was no other.

He was a mother’s delight. Unobtrusive, quiet, a boy of exceptional intelligence and concentration, obedient and a sneaking tendency to excel in everything he would touch, the indications of his success were for all to see. He was destined to be something special. Coming from an academically illustrious family, this was the norm rather than the exception. And he did not disappoint. Never did. The boy grew up to be one of the best in the family – excellent in demeanor, hard-working, handsome and professionally outstanding. The parents were blessed. Or so they thought.

Till I came into the picture.

I was everything he was not. I was mischievous, deliberately non-conformist, utterly vain and supremely confident in the idea that I was an equal if not better than him. I never was. Contrary to the general fortunes in my life, in academics, luck did smile on me when it was most needed. I barely scraped through otherwise. Statistically, I hardly had an average academic career. I never listened to the soundest advice of my parents even when I knew that they were right. My desire to learn everything through experience was unshakeable even after persistent, recurring setbacks. In short, I did nothing in my excellent useless life so far to deserve the tag of a worthy sibling. I could not have cared any less.

If it were not for my mother.

When he was felicitated as one of the beacons of hope, after he stood in top 20 in our final board examinations, only one could accompany him to the ceremony. My father went and my mother missed out. I promised to her that on my day it would even out. Much as I pride myself on keeping promises, I was not able to. She never mentioned it and I am quite sure she would not even recollect this incident.

But promises in childhood are more than just promises. Particularly those made to parents.

Today, we have both made something out of our lives. He – expectedly and I, contrary to popular belief quite unexpectedly. He – seamlessly, effortlessly and I scrambling and scraping. As I think today, given an option, whom would I like my offspring to emulate? The one who gave joy and made them proud or the one who hardly ever could? The one who grew up to be everything his parents hoped for or the one whose only connection to his parents would be the same genetic constitution?

This time, the answer definitely does not blow in the wind.