I sometimes feel that when you are born second in an Indian family, life simply signs you up for something you never applied for. A lifetime membership of the Second-Hand Department. You don't get a welcome kit or an instruction manual. Just an unspoken understanding that whatever reaches you has probably already completed one full life cycle with someone else.
That was my childhood.
Almost everything around me had a previous owner. Mostly my sister. She was the firstborn, the golden child, the original edition. The one that got the excitement, the attention, the fresh purchases. By the time I arrived, my parents looked like people who had already run the full marathon and were now taking a nap.
I don’t say this with anger anymore. It comes out more like a tired smile mixed with a tiny pinch somewhere inside the chest.
My sister got the real assets. Brand new clothes. Brand new things. Brand new emotional enthusiasm from the parents. I got what the house lovingly described as “still perfectly usable.”
Leftovers became a lifestyle.
The bicycle story is something I still remember very clearly.
Every boy in the colony wanted a Hero Ranger. Fair expectation at that age. That cycle had personality. Straight bar in the middle. Slightly rugged look.
What did I get? My sister’s BSA SLR Ladybird.
Yes. The famous one without the horizontal bar. Designed beautifully so "girls" could ride comfortably. Very graceful design. Just not exactly the dream ride of a young boy trying to look cool in front of his friends.
There I was, pedaling through the colony on a Ladybird. Friends tried very hard not to laugh directly on my face. My parents had the classic explanation ready. “Cycle toh cycle hoti hai.”
That sentence still amazes me. By that philosophy, a Ferrari and a bullock cart are also just transportation.
But childhood is flexible. You adjust. You pedal the bicycle you get. Slowly, your brain convinces you that dignity can wait.
Years passed. I grew older and made a quiet promise to myself. One day I will stop living a second-hand life. I will build things fresh.
Nice dream. Reality laughed immediately.
Because the corporate world works with the same philosophy. Most jobs appear only after someone leaves them. Somebody resigns. Somebody quits. Somebody disappears. Then HR calls you with congratulations and hands over the chair. So technically, my professional life also started with a second-hand vacancy. Not what I had in mind when I spoke about fresh beginnings. But life enjoys small sarcasm.
Then came the marriage phase.
My father suddenly became extremely active in the matchmaking department. His suggestion was simple. Why search outside when our extended family already has many "suitable" girls within the family?
I politely refused. For once, I decided I would not continue the family tradition. This chapter of life deserves something new. Someone new. A person who is not part of the same gene pool.
I married a wonderful woman who had absolutely nothing to do with my family tree. Looking back, that decision still feels like one of the smartest moves I made.
But traditions are stubborn creatures. Soon after the wedding, parcels started arriving from my parents. Second-hand utensils, slightly tired second-hand furniture belonging to my grandfather, second-hand cupboards that were repainted by three generations, and weighed tons, a second-hand rot-iron foldable bed that screeched so loudly, it summoned The Devil Himself.
Every item came with the same assurance - “Still in good condition.”
At some point, I had to gently say enough. Our home cannot become a retirement home for objects that everybody else has finished using. Then life gave me something beautiful.
My wife got pregnant.
For the first time in my life, something felt completely new. Something that did not belong to someone else. My own child. A fresh beginning without scratches.
That day, I quietly made a decision - This child will probably be the only one. Not because raising two kids is difficult. But because the strange tradition of the second-born surviving on leftovers ends here. I don’t want another child in this house growing up with the feeling that I experienced.
My parents still try sometimes. Old habits travel long distances. Even today, they send things our way. Sometimes objects. Sometimes something less visible. Second-hand resentments. Second-hand comparisons. Second-hand jealousies that have been circulating in the family for decades.
My wife and I have learned how to refuse them with a smile.
Because when you grow up watching real heirlooms bypass you, when the meaningful things that carry pride and legacy always move in one direction toward the firstborn, the feeling stays with you. It takes time to understand what really happened.
Somewhere between riding that second-hand Ladybird bicycle and watching the family heirloom skip my name entirely, the lesson became permanent.
Heirlooms go to the golden child. Leftovers just go to the dustbin.
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