When My Sister Became My Unofficial Fact-Checker

For years, I ran a one-man campaign to deny everything my sister said, only to discover that she was usually right, and I was spectacularly wrong.

In my younger days in the seventies, my sister, barely two years younger, was my permanent sparring partner in our cramped, lively little corner of Bangalore. We lived in a single-bedroom house near  Malleswaram station, shared with assorted relatives, neighbours dropping in unannounced, and enough background noise to qualify as a small festival.

And like most elder brothers of those days, I wore my age like a badge of unquestionable authority. Age was supposed to be the shortcut to wisdom, whether you actually had any or not.

So whenever she came home from school proudly announcing that she had scored 90 in a subject, I would immediately jump in.  “How can you get 90? I never got 90. So you definitely can’t.”

My logic was deeply flawed but perfect in my mind. Also, preventing joint-family comparisons was a matter of emotional self-defence.  “She is doing so well… unlike him,” was a line I wanted to avoid hearing at any cost.

Of course, the marks card would eventually arrive and expose me as the only liar in the room.

If she said she bought something at a price that sounded too good to be true, I would drag her to the shop to prove her wrong, only to be proven wrong myself, usually with the shopkeeper nodding at her like she was some miniature economist.

If guests arrived, she would hiss, “Sit properly! Get up! Look alive!”  But no, "The elder brother would not so much as twitch until he personally sighted the guests."  And then, naturally, I would scold her for not being trustworthy.

During bus rides, she would confidently declare that we had passed an exhibition or circus, and I would dismiss it as pure imagination, only to be corrected on the return journey when the giant posters would loom up like evidence placed deliberately to shame me.

But the most chilling episode came when she said some man was following her to school every day.  I brushed it aside, until my father suggested we walk behind her after a few minutes. What we saw made my blood run cold: a man was indeed trailing her steadily.

A quick visit to the Malleswaram police station, a solid thrashing for him, and only then did we realise how dangerous it could have been. Even that didn’t completely cure my scepticism, though it certainly shook it.

Looking back, I think I instinctively challenged everything she said because I feared her mind worked faster than mine, and that my limitations might get exposed.

And then came the day of ultimate humiliation.

Some guests were at home. I was lounging on the sofa in my trademark sprawling posture when she suddenly whispered urgently,  “Sit properly!" And I retorted "What was wrong?" She said "Your undergarments are visible.”

I huffed, puffed, and dismissed her as usual.  “Oh really? If you’re so sure, tell me the colour!”

She calmly named the colour.  I had no clue myself, so I discreetly tugged my half-pants to check.

Unfortunately, this “discreet checking” happened right in front of the guests, who had perked up the moment I loudly challenged her to “name the colour of my undergarments!”

The colour matched.  Bangalore’s cool evening breeze was nothing compared to the chill running down my spine.  And no, this is not your cue to pause and inspect whether I was wearing an underwear in that picture.

That was the day I finally learned a lesson no textbook, no elder, and no moral-science teacher had ever taught me:  

The so-called advantage of age does not guarantee knowledge, or even the most basic common sense.

Today, when I look back, I realise that those endless arguments, her stubborn confidence, and my equally stubborn disbelief formed the real syllabus of my childhood. In a noisy one-bedroom home in Bangalore, she unknowingly became the mirror I needed, and the fact-checker I never asked for.

And though I may not admit it to her even now without a fight, I learnt some of my most important lessons not from elders, books, or school…but from the little sister I insisted on not believing.

Stories, not instructions. Experiences, not advice—medical or otherwise. Data, only what the internet quietly gathers anyway. Proceed with equal parts curiosity and common sense.