Scholastic Award Winner: The Unbreakable Bond of Sibling Love

The Unbreakable Bond of Sibling Love

Gold Key in Personal Essay and Memoir

By Evelyn
Grade 9

The spicy garlic aroma of biryani and butter paneer lingered in the air. My school friend had invited my family, including my boisterous eight-year-old brother, to her house for dinner during our spring break. Everyone gathered around the dinner table, relishing the delicious taste of Indian cuisine: the soft cheese dunked in a rich, creamy curry made of spices, onions, and tomatoes melted in my lips with a blast of heat. The piquant flavor tasted exotic to me; I had experienced nothing like it. I was accustomed to my Chinese culture’s cozy wonton soup and fluffy fried rice, drizzled with sesame oil and soy sauce. My food was straightforward and simple, no intricate blend of spices and herbs in sight. My friend’s dad glanced up at me with the kindest brown eyes before looking down at the half-eaten butter paneer on my plate.

“Do you like it?” he asked, his voice carrying a thick Indian accent.

“Yes, I like it,” I replied, trying to keep the hesitation out of my voice.

I wasn’t lying; I simply wasn’t used to the flavor. It was at that moment the differences between our families became strikingly clear. Vibrant red and yellow decorations adorned the walls, while a shrine housed an enormous image of an Indian deity. Intricately carved pieces of furniture with patterned pillows filled the room, adding bursts of color. Besides our cultures, my friend and I often joked about our contrasting temperaments, her headstrong and lively nature clashing with my efforts to manage her energetic demeanor.

“Mmm, this is too good,” she exclaimed, her mouth hanging wide as she chewed furiously, the bits of tomatoes and mushy cheese swirling around on her tongue.

Her face broke into a wide smile as she took another monstrous bite of her garlic naan, completely forgetting about table manners. She was a whirlwind of energy, lost in her own world.

As we continued eating, our mouths still tingling with heat, my friend’s father shared stories about himself and his brother. He began by telling us about his younger brother, Neevan, who, at twenty-four, immigrated to the United States in pursuit of opportunity. Here, he attended an esteemed college and established a family through hard work and resilience.

“As a child, Neevan and I shared a deep bond. We used to play together by the riverside near our mudstone home in our village. Just the two of us. Of course, we had other village friends, but we preferred each other over anyone else,” he mused, drumming his hands on the wooden table. “We didn’t mind at all that the water was slightly unclean. There were many tiny fishes swimming near the edge of the bank, and we would see who could catch the most with our little hands.”

In my mind, I saw him and Neevan as young children standing knee-deep in the murky waters, flanked by the neighboring huts and villages. I imagined the siblings frolicking in the cool river under the blazing sun for hours until their parents beckoned them back home; it made me yearn for more quality time with my brother when he was little. I thought about all the times I avoided interaction with him to be with my friends instead. Feeling remorse, I continued to listen.

“Before summer officially arrived, Neevan and I always used to harvest rice in the large field behind our home,” he continued, taking a sip of his masala chai, and gazed up in reminiscence. “I remember the aches in our muscles and the sweat on our necks from carrying heaps of rice on top of our heads during the hot afternoons. We dreaded the task, so we would just goof around, but in the end, we collaborated efficiently and it gave us a sense of accomplishment.”

I thought about my brother and me when we were kids, and how we would have to rake leaves in the fall. We both loathed the exhausting labor, so I fled instead of finishing, leaving all the work for my brother. He would fill up all the large paper bags and leave our lawn immaculate, yet still give me credit when speaking to our parents. My friend’s father continued, explaining how he and his brother used to dance during village festival gatherings, visit their local weekly market, and perform their own Kuchipudi dances in front of friends and relatives. I could just imagine them as two kids, dancing joyfully, swimming together in the river, and laughing until their bellies ached. The way he explained his relationship with his brother sounded like pure bliss.

But then his narrative took a turn when he revealed how Neevan fell into a deep depression during the COVID-19 pandemic after his wife passed from cancer before.

“He couldn’t work or care for his young children and had no other family to help him in the U.S,” he murmured, with a note of sadness. He dropped his fork and bowed his head.

I stared down somberly, consumed by the sorrow his brother must have felt — losing his wife, coping with the debilitating loneliness of the pandemic, and suffering alone in a world that suddenly seemed so empty. A sense of hopelessness seemed to brew in the kitchen as everyone tensed up. Even my own mischievous brother sat quietly with downcast eyes, his little legs no longer kicking his chair. Pessimism permeated the room as we listened in silence about Neevan’s gradual recovery and return to a normal life. Then, just as everyone relaxed and exhaled, my friend’s father’s voice grew again as he recounted the day of his brother’s heart attack. The room felt silent a second time, thick with anticipation. I could feel my heartbeat quicken as he described how he found his brother lying prone on the cold office floor during his visit, eyes closed, as if in a deep, troubled slumber.  A palpable panic crept into his voice as he relived the frantic moments before help arrived, having felt only the cold touch of Neevan’s neck. Gripping the edge of the table with my fingernails, I imagined the confused voices buzzing about him and the tight circle of onlookers surrounding the scene. Within a matter of minutes, my friend’s father described how Neevan was revived back to life with a whirlwind of CPR, AED electric shocks, countless prescriptions, and IV administration.

“And just like that, his life was saved. Of course, I stayed a half year with my brother until he recovered from his heart attack.” my friend’s father exclaimed, his eyes shining with emotion. “My brother’s outlook on life is more optimistic than ever, now that he is fully recovered. But without my help and encouragement, Neevan would have left this world and joined his beloved wife.”

As I look at my little brother’s choppy face and innocent eyes at the dinner table, a flood of memories rushed back — the late-night conversations we had while whispering secrets under the covers, or the thrill of racing our bikes down the streets with the wind whipping through our hair. I recalled the first time I laid eyes on him as a baby, freshly home from the hospital, sleeping peacefully in the white bassinet beside my mother’s bed. Now, he stands as a second grader at the height of my chest. Over the years, I’ve come to understand that much like Neevan and his brother, our bond has been shaped through our shared experiences.

Despite our differences in culture and background, that night I recognized the common thread between our families of sibling bonds. Although our habits and customs varied, both her father and I share the unconditional affection that comes with having a brother. Inspired by her father’s story, I felt a renewed commitment both to support my brother avidly and to gain a deeper appreciation for other cultures. I realized during that dinner how new experiences can bring me valuable discoveries, even something as significant as the fundamental importance of siblinghood. Sibling love, as I have learned, is a priceless treasure that transcends ordinary friendships and serves as a vital source of spiritual support among families. I promise to protect and cherish that tie, and hope that we will continue to support each other no matter what lies ahead in life.