Celebrity column: Oh bother! writes Shweta Bachchan Nanda

It’s been a bit of a day. I woke up to an eye swollen shut and no clue as to why. By mid-morning, I am convinced that I am dying; losing my eyesight being the jumping off point for a spiralling flight of fancy. Helped along by dire prognostications from my kids. The rain has triumphed over some very expensive waterproofing and formed a puddle on the carpet. After gulping down some strong antihistamines, I am loopy and even blurrier than I was earlier, but slightly better equipped to handle my day. My brother, who normally is gifted with great timing, sends me a link on how it is “scientifically proven that parents love their eldest child more.” Whoever researched this was not an older child! A few hours later, he FaceTimes me, recoiling as my face appears on the screen, “You look scary,” he says. A few hours later, he shares a photo on our family chat group (of us in the ’80s) — with the comment “nice moustache, Shwetdi,” many crying-with-laughter emojis from my kids in response. I am immune to this, it has been three decades of unending banter — mostly at my expense.

As a child, he would wish on every fallen eyelash for a younger brother, but the years went by and he was stuck with me — the Yang to his Yin. He was charming and energetic, while I was shy and, quite frankly, a bit of a wet sock. He took charge and I was happy to let him. A dynamic that remained for a while, wherein though older by two years, I became the younger sibling. If the ‘know it alls’ of the world decided to unionise, he could easily be elected to represent them. So, over the years, I’ve been dispensed wisdom from home cures for an eye infection to the best colour palette for my skin tone, surprised that I was not more grateful to be the recipient of his unlimited knowledge.

A few more hours on, he sends another picture — this one’s grainy, so probably from a newspaper. In it, my father stands flanked by his kids in front of a statue at the Cairo Museum. I have two cameras slung over my neck, and look pained and sullen. He is sharp and smiling, free of the load of two cumbersome cameras that he palmed off on me to carry.

Years ago, I remember being coerced by him to get into our Fiat parked in the driveway, the keys still in the ignition. With the confidence that comes of being either very brave or foolhardy, he started the car and pressing on the gas moved it a foot forward. It was the most subversive thing we had ever done! And finally, I had serious ammunition. If he were to bully me, I would just tell the parents he “drove the car.” Just like that, with some patience and Machiavellian scheming, I had outsmarted the usurper to my throne.

This year for my birthday, he got me a pair of Yeezy’s. “You need to wear them with the laces undone, that’s how all the cool people are doing it,” he says. It is only after tripping over them for the nth time that I realise, my reign hasn’t been without its uprisings. Till I plan my next move, probably a very garish rakhi, the score is Ying 1/Yang 0.