My first memory of celebrating rakhi is my brother and I fighting over gulab jamuns. It’s not like gulab jamuns were less in number, but they were, well, gulab jamuns. We wanted to protect them. I was the younger one, the girl, and I had already experienced my older brother running away with my food, stealing it, hiding it from me or simply sweeping in to get the last bite I had saved to savor towards the end of my meal. Now, I was prepared. I was six, and all my fangs were out. I was ready to show him my strength in a free for all. My brother, on the other hand, was laughing because he knew that in no way could I win the brawl. But before we began clawing each other’s eyes out, our parents intervened and divided the goodies on our plates equally, while I glared at him.

My father’s sisters and some other relatives would swarm home during Raksha Bandhan to celebrate and eat their hearts out. They were oblivious to this crackling animosity between my brother and me. Except for our mother. She would go past me and quietly whisper, “Gudia chup kar ke baith ja (Gudia, keep quiet and sit down).” Of course, I glared at my mother before I sat down, to make my point.

Over the years, rakhi became a celebration where the animosity between my brother and me was replaced by protectiveness for each other. We would look forward to the goodies, the fun, but we were also sad somewhere because our mother could never sit down and really enjoy the celebration. She was mostly running to the kitchen or toiling early morning to prepare all the brunch goodies for the relatives. As we grew up, we began helping her finish work fast so that she could sit with us and be part of everything.

Our bond matured and we would share secrets with each other, I would hide his cigarettes, lend clothes to his girlfriends, and he had many! I still haven’t understood what happened to my magenta pink shirt that one of them took. And in turn, he would get me gifts from his salary that our parents wouldn’t allow for me, while I was still studying. I was spoilt rotten.

The deepest part of rakhi is very little talked about and often hijacked by another brother sister festival, bhai dooj – that dot on the forehead I put for my brother every year on rakhi after tying him the rakhi. A little bit of rice, a few strands of saffron, sometimes turmeric, sometimes sindoor, all mixed together with pure ghee so that the concoction would stick to his forehead. And every year, he would tease me and say, “Come, now put the biryani on my forehead and give me that sweet,” and we would laugh.

For me, this dot is as significant as the thread of protectiveness. The thread of protectiveness is for the brother to protect his sister under all circumstances. The tilak on the forehead is the sister’s response to protect her brother from evil eyes and negativity. Every year, that dot on his forehead was my response to his love and protection.

As we grew up, we lived in different cities and sometimes, I would be able to make it physically to celebrate Rakhi with him, at other times I could not. But the bond of love continued. This year too, we are physically apart but my rakhi and tilak will protect him from negativity and harm. This is also the first year that our parents are not there with us to celebrate Rakhi. Mom passed away in November 2020 and dad passed away in January this year. As I write this, there is a lump in my throat but there is also a strong resolve that we are there for each other even if mom and dad are not.

To all the brothers in this world, shield your sister but don’t suppress her. Be there for her when she wants to live her life, fight with your parents if she wants to fulfil her dreams or do something that may be unconventional but brave. Stand with her against the world. That’s what my brother did.

And that’s why this bond is so unbreakable.