On Being The Eldest Daughter
I let myself home, ready to call it a day from holding it all together. I notice Amma is not in the kitchen like she usually is. I find her in their bedroom, like I expected, with a faraway look in her eyes she gets at times. “Is everything okay?” I ask. She hastily rearranges her face, “No, no, everything is fine! Shall I get your dinner?” She asks with a fake, bright smile. I file this day in my memory to ask her about it again on a weekend.
I am Amma’s mirror, she finds her reflection old enough on some days but far too young on others. Some days she’s kind to her reflection, some days she’s critical. I know Amma sees her missed opportunities, her joy, and on occasion, the things she doesn’t like in me. I try not to take them personally, I try not to let them influence me. I mask it all behind a smile, everything is fine.
That’s what my parents remind me from time to time, in coded words and looks; they moved countries so I could have all these opportunities. So, I smile, hoping it passes for gratitude even though I feel like the Joker. I just take what I’m handed. I’m strong enough to handle it or obedient enough to follow through.
It’s not uncommon for plans to be made for me in my absence.
“When will Thendral be home?”
“Ask Thendral.”
“Leave it, Thendral will sort it out over the weekend.”
And of course, I will. I go around the house, fixing things, asking everyone if they’re okay, comforting, offering advice, or talking to someone on their behalf as needed. I often feel like I’m walking on a tightrope with no safety net; no room for mistakes, no one to catch me if I fall. So, it’s all on me to keep this going, to balance myself to get to an end that’s nowhere in sight.
I’m the designated translator, the warranty register, the printer purchaser. I watch my sister go through life, fairly unlike me, with relaxed curfews and lesser inquisitions than I recall experiencing. It’s almost like the mother who raised me is not the mother who is raising her.
“No, I don’t want to.” I push back on an odd day when I’m just tired of it all, the weight of a thousand mountains too much to bear. Hurt looks back at me. Disappointment. A shred of anger. I roll my eyes inwardly, frustrated that years of conditioning don’t let me enjoy the concept of boundaries. Worse yet, when “What happens once you get married?” comes back at me at lightning speed. The caregiver role stays, never wavers. I’m never anything more than to indulge the qualms and whims of others. I’m suddenly more exhausted than I thought humanly possible.
I take a deep breath then, to pull myself together. I’m tough, I gleam like a diamond when I think of my ability to stay unflappable under pressure. Thug-like immigration officers, hospitals, pushy salesmen, nothing can faze me. Everything is fine, it’s under control. I’m flawless, telling my fifty, sixty-something-year-old parents what I think should be the next course of action, revelling the moment my parents treat my opinion like it’s priceless.
But sometimes, the rug gets pulled from under me.
“No, let’s wait a couple more years until you’re older.”
“You can do that with your husband after you’re married.”
I fantasise about a life free of expectations then. If I can just relax and kick back. The life I could live and the person I could be if I wasn’t the eldest daughter. I wonder if I will be worthless if I don’t keep doing what I’m asked to. I wonder if and how life will go on without me. If documents will be filed, appointments made, and care and comfort sought if I wasn’t in the picture. Sometimes I don’t know who I am outside of these responsibilities.
I remember the time a masseuse who was kneading my shoulders told me, “You put too much weight here.” “Oh yeah, I work in front of a computer.” I replied absently, used to comments from masseuses about my tight shoulders. “No, no.” she pushed and felt around my shoulders a bit more. “You have… you have worries here.” She insisted again, as she tried to find the words and chase the knot away. She followed me out after the session, to speak at length to the receptionist in Thai while she gestured to me. The receptionist smiled at her and then me, “She thinks you have too much bothering you.” she said simply. I laughed awkwardly, willing the credit card machine to move along quicker.
Some days, I worry if I am doing enough, if I should be doing more. Some days, it’s so second nature I don’t even think about it. That little constriction around my heart? It’s fine! See, my blood pressure is fine. Everything is fine.
I make plans.
“I can’t that Thursday, we have a new fridge coming in, my parents will probably need me.”
“Is it raining out? Hey, can you give me a minute, I just need to call my parents and check if they want me to order them dinner?”
“No, no, my parents will be distraught if they hear this, I need to break it down for them.”
Ever so often I wonder who the parent is.
“You’re so lucky to have a daughter like this!” People say admiringly as I look at one parent to another, uncertain if I had imagined that brief moment of pride. For someone who had to grow up and mature faster than her age, I naively expected to hear, “Yes, yes, we are so grateful for her!” for quite some time.
On occasion, in the secrecy of a moonless night or a steamy shower, I cry silent tears, a heaving mess in the bed or against a wall, never quite sure why. It all just feels too much, the pressure constant, suffocating, inescapable even if I do get married and have a family of my own. It’s draining, it’s absurd, it’s cathartic. I wash my face carefully, a lie about soap getting in my eyes ready on the tip of my tongue to explain the redness. I feel a bit relieved, a bit refreshed, and ready to keep going. I’m Thendral; there’s nothing I can’t do. “Set up the new TV? I would be happy to!” It’s actually quite satisfying on most days. “Set the whole TV up without even looking at the manual once, who am I? I’m a rockstar.” I pat myself on my shoulder, in place of the thank you I know will never come. Only to hear, “Thendral, did you set the TV correctly? It’s not playing.” a few days later. “You have to press input.” I say patiently, foreseeing this to be a standard answer for days to come.
Sometimes it feels like the love I receive is transactional, bound by the duties I have to perform, or increased on the rare occasions I meet some expectations. Whereas I'm expected to give love unconditionally. No questions on whether I'm pouring from an empty cup. The only question that's ever raised is "Why am I not pouring?" So, I set aside my feelings, lying to myself, “It’s just this once. I’m not doing much anyway. What’s my problem? I can’t do this one thing? For my PARENTS?” Yeah, I’ll be fine, I can handle it. It’s just a bit of extra pressure on my shoulders. Nothing a masseuse can’t fix.
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