Long car journeys have never been a favorite of the Deshpande family. Neither parents nor children fare well during them, and so you know, as you all pile into the van, not to expect anything but misery and heartache from beginning to end of this entire sorry escapade. You have packed accordingly: portable CD player, headphones, more snacks than you could carry in your arms alone, and a generous seven books.

Krishna has not had as much foresight. Quelle surprise.

"Lee-la," he sing-songs around the forty-five minute mark.

You hold strong, pretending you can't hear him through the music pumping through your headphones.

"LEE-la," he tries again, this time poking at your shoulder for added measure.

"Ayyo, Kanna, leave her alone."

Your mother, sticking up for you for once. You're nearly surprised enough to abandon your ruse to thank her, considering how often she tries to get you to humor your little brother's idiocy and constant need for attention. Instead, you file it away for the next time you need some extra endearment towards her.

Her early intervention means that you get around ten minutes before Krishna's back at it again, and this time you can't corral your annoyance. You push your headphones down to your shoulders angrily and shoot him a look over your shoulder. He grins at you, leaning his forearms on the back of your seat even though your parents have already told him several times to sit down and put his seatbelt on. Uncharitably, you hope that the car jolts and he knocks his head on your headrest. (It's not mean to wish little things like that, you tell yourself, because you'd never want anything actually bad to happen to him. And besides, anybody's good will would be tested if they were saddled with the most annoying brother on the planet.)

"What do you want?" you snap.

He continues grinning. He is, as always, unflappable. "Wanna play a game? I Spy!"

"I'm listening to music." To illustrate your argument, you point with more flourish than necessary at your CD player. "I don't want to play a game."

He whines at you until your parents make you play with him, which is basically the story of your life. Hours later, they also make you give him half of the candy bar you got at the last filling station stop even though he'd claimed very vehemently not to want anything. Honestly. You grit your teeth and think about how lucky he is that they managed to arrive at Purnima Auntie's house before you throttled him.

You get it: being the oldest sibling sucks. That's pretty much what you've gathered from all your friends who are older siblings – or younger ones, for that matter. But none of them have to deal with Krishna in particular, who is so beloved by pretty much everyone else that no one seems to understand your beleaguerment. The thing is, yeah, he's cute. He's only cute, however, for a very short amount of time, and you have no idea how that escapes people's attention. And it isn't that you're jealous, because people love you, too. They just don't seem to understand that you're practically a saint.

Three days later on the drive back to London he falls asleep with his head in your lap. You tell yourself it's just his silence you're endeared by.