I am a man's man in no man's land

In the absence of my father, I was told I was the man. "You are the man of the house now," my grandparents told me when he left. "You have to look after your mother and sisters."

But I was only 15, suffering from undiagnosed learning impediment. I didn't have the streetsmarts of my sisters, nor the ingenuity of my mother, who could have easily kept the home fire burning if her family had nurtured her confidence, or allowed her to study beyond Class 10.

Confused and under constant pressure to keep the family afloat, I learned brute force and physical intimidation did the job when I was confused or couldn't argue logically. It kept my teenaged sisters "in line" despite them finding a hundred ways to stay out late or meet boys. A quick rap or glare at friends ended all parties.

To my dismay, in hindsight of course, this just made me more of a 'man' in society's eyes. My family feared me and others praised me for keeping my sisters safe. At home, people scurried around me — food appeared garma-garam on the dining table as soon as I arrived. "Do this quickly, or bhaiyya will get angry," my grandmother would whisper. I was, I kid you not, Shiva incarnate and everyone feared my wrath. No one dared speak loudly or close the door noisily when I was sleeping or speaking on the phone.

When my sisters began earning (long before I did), it was a personal affront. It meant they could make their own decisions, so of course I decreed that they gave their income to the household fund (i.e. me) and I would decide how much pocket money they got. I was still in charge of their curfews and where they went. It's not surprising that they left as soon as they could — through marriage. One of them ended in a divorce and she prefers to stay on rent and raise her child alone rather than come home. The other is also not happy, I know. What I envy is the tight bond the girls have – something they probably forged because of me, and something I am left out of.

As for me, I grow lonelier in my high tower. Slowly, all the elders who praised me for being 'a man' are dead or dying. In their place is a new generation that only sees an angry loser; they don't make excuses for my behaviour like my grandparents did.

I never learned to communicate, co-operate or find solutions – I only knew how to command and intimidate. For a short while, I was even the muscle for a local anti-social element. I can't work in teams and move from job to job. My relationships do not last. One girlfriend called me a "typical Leo: generous and loving as long as everyone accepts that you are king."

In my mid-40s now, I live with my mother. My sisters do not speak to me and the loss is mine. We could have been great friends and gone through life together. They would have protected me, helped me get jobs without the fear of how my unprofessional behaviour would reflect upon them. They could have give me relationship advice. I could have had a relationship with my baby nieces and nephews.

If only they hadn't told me to be a man.

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