tula & shreya
by Shana Bulhan
Someday in June when she was twenty nine, my sister, my rueful bearer of all obloquy — Well, she died. “Jaan don’t say it like that,” My mother would whisper, her eyes all mysterious heavy-lidded cliche. But she did, yes, my sister died. Tula, our dashing favourite, spun of fluorescence and quick bite. Why are you supposed to make death sound nice? Tula was never nice. No, Tula was made of flare-in-your-hangover and simpering manipulation. She was heavy-lidded too like my mother, and just as much a charismatic wreck. Unlike my mother, she wouldn’t stand for trite stereotypes. Mum smiled and nodded — “What can you do about these foreigners anyway” — while Tula railed and raged like all the other young western ingenue feminists.
Sereen’s and my birthday is on the Eleventh of June. Tula should have fucking thought of that. Don’t kill yourself the same day your siblings are trying to celebrate.