The story you’re about to hear is from Saadia.   

Good evening, everyone. My name is Saadia Ahmed, and I am a digital journalist and a storyteller from Pakistan. Today, I’m going to tell you a story about my sister and I. October 24th, 2020, 7 p.m. I was sitting on the corner of my bed, looking through the window, holding phone in my hand. 

By the way, there is no view worth seeing outside my window as it directly opens into the balcony, which does not overlook a garden, but an under-construction building. It was dark, and the heavy grey curtains did not make it any easy. I kept looking at my phone, waiting for one message after another. 

Tears flowed down my eyes as if the rivers knew no bounds. My heart was overwhelmed with an astounding sadness that held my body and soul in its callous strong hands. It was my sister’s wedding. My only sister, my baby sister. She was sending me her pictures from the beauty salon where she was all dressed up to look like a [inaudible words]. 

Wearing our mother’s own bridal dress, which was deep maroon in colour with gold embroidered and weave patterns, my baby sister looked like a goddess you could not take your eyes off. Her big eyes were rimmed with gold, her eyelids accentuated by bronze and golden eyeshadows that added to the depth of her eyes. 

Golden earrings. Dangling down her ears and our mother’s jewels adding even more life to her dress. She looked like our mother from 38 years ago. With rosy cheeks and lips, she smiled profusely as she posed for me in her camera. Her eyes were gleaming with happiness and her lips could not conceal the joy that filled her soul on the big day. 

My sister made the most beautiful bride ever. In my eyes, at least. And here, I was, sitting oceans and miles away, sulking in a bed with ruffled sheets and teary eyes. Maybe, teary is an understatement. It seemed just yesterday when I was in Pakistan for her engagement over Christmas holidays. After the engagement was over, his sisters giggled all night, discussing every guest in general and her mother-in-law’s best friend jokes, in particular. 

Despite being nine years apart, we always shared a close bond. She would forward me her fiancé’s texts, asking me to rephrase, Her message is for a more poetic expression. By the way, I’ve been doing this for my folks pretty much all my life. From mum’s emails to my uncle and his wife in California, to congratulatory texts when my cousin had twins, the writer they had in the family always came handy. 

Little did the poor guy knew that they were not just both of them in that relationship. It also had a nine year old big sister that came as a part of the package. He had no idea what he had signed up for. I’m usually annoyed by people who talk too much about their family, because what interest would anyone else have in the people they’ve never met? 

Today, I’m one of them. I might sound annoying to you, but you’re bad, as I will go on anyway. I still remember the day she was born. It was a Wednesday evening back in the year 1994 when she was born on a cold November evening. I was dancing like madmen, jumping here and there. I always wanted a sister, and there she was. 

Yes, she’s nine years younger to me. Although initially the difference seemed huge as I was reading books while she was still crying her lungs out for milk. While I had my first crush, she was merely learning to speak, but with time, this difference dissolved. By the time she was in high school, both of us were as thick as anything. 

I remember when I was in uni and she was still a school kid, I told her I needed space. This was a concept completely unheard for a little monkey who always followed her big sister wherever she went. She started crying loud. And made sure she didn’t leave me anywhere alone as if she was my shadow. By the way, it doesn’t mean that I wouldn’t have a fair share of fights and disasters. 

Although I was the elder one, she made sure she bullied me in every possible way. I made up for her antics by sneaking her mascara for my night out with her yelling at the top of her voice only when she found it a day later. She still reminds me how I created a havoc when I lost my first debit card and blamed it on this poor kid that she had misplaced it while taking it to the bakery to buy some cookies. 

Many times we would have a huge fight just before leaving for a picnic. One of us announcing, ‘I am not going anywhere with her’. And then ended up going together with long faces pulled down to our chests. 

Even reconciling, um, came this naturally. Uh, there was never sorry or thank you for that matter. We simply resumed speaking as if nothing had ever happened. It was as simple as that. Despite living apart for years now, my sister always made sure that I was the first one to know everything that happened in the house. 

From whining about her college exams and her pattern-making professor who never approved her designs to bitching about our own mom every time she lectured her for waking up too late every day; from video calling me while making omelette because she wanted me to tell her the right proportions of eggs and mushrooms; to sending photos of her new summer clothes, asking me to choose the one that looked the brightest. 

My sister made me a part of everything in her life, no matter how little or mundane it was. Although I did get irritated every now and then, but then who cared? I am among those few people who quickly settled and assimilated after moving to a new country, Australia. I was barely homesick because my new home and country excited me at all times. 

I looked everything here with a child’s excitement. The only few days I was homesick were my birthdays and Eids, which you can probably call a Muslim Christmas. But even on those occasions, I would shed a tear or two and get on with my fabulous Australian life. But I am a changed person now. As much as I love being in one of the safest countries of the world, as far as a global pandemic is concerned, I cannot bring myself to come to terms with the fact that I might not be able to hold my sister for another year, maybe. 

I do not want to sound ungrateful by saying that the year 2020 has been one of the hardest years of my life because many from my home country, Pakistan, and around the world have lost their family members to a ruthless pandemic. 

Many people lost their loved ones in a jiffy without even imagining it a month earlier. Many people lost their livelihoods and might take time to recover from the financial losses. Many people went through health issues because of the unavailability of doctors for many procedures. Many people experienced domestic violence and riots because of people being stuck with their abusive family members. 

We say distance doesn’t matter as long as the hearts are not apart. Now I think it does. We do want our loved and near ones to be within our sight so that we can touch them, hug them tight, squeeze their nose, and fight with them when they want to take a bite of the chips we are having. I have understood this well since October 24th, 2020. 

I have firm faith that one day I will be able to hug my sister tight, laughing and teary eyed at the same time at our parents living room, which has green walls, but it might never be the same. Being there for her through every thick and thin, I wasn’t there for her when it was the most important day of her life. 

I’m the eldest daughter. Of a South Asian family, which means practically being next to the mother in every possible way. But this time, I wasn’t there for them when they needed me the most. Marrying off their youngest child. 2020 has left a lump in my throat that I might not be able to recover from. It has made me realise the importance of family and never taking anything in life for granted. 

It has taught me the value of relationships and human emotions. It has made me reflect and realise how much I love my sister and would give up anything to be with her at this very moment. I don’t want to sound preachy, but there’s just one thing that I have to say. Please value your family and loved ones while you’re still around them. 

Life is too short and unpredictable. Just like the year 2020. By the way, when I had started writing, my sister always wanted me to write something about her and make her famous. I never did. Today, my story is all about her. So this goes out to you, Fizza. I wish you were around. Thank you. 

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