Rakhi

There are some days in India that begin differently from ordinary days. Rakhi is one of them.

You wake up earlier than you usually would, take a bath, get ready, and somehow the entire house already feels like it is preparing for something. I have always followed the little rule of not eating anything before tying Rakhi to my brothers. There is also a muhurt attached to it, which means there is a certain time by which the Rakhi is supposed to be tied. So, even before the actual celebration begins, there is this small sense of urgency in the house.

And then, slowly, the house starts filling up.

Relatives arrive. The bua comes, more people walk in. Someone is asking where something has been kept, someone is calling someone else from another room, someone is laughing, and someone is already complaining about missing stuffs. Thankfully, I have Ben lucky enough not to have the stereotypical toxic bua in my life. Mine are actually people I looked forward to seeing.

The strangest part is the noise.

When the house is crowded, silence starts feeling abnormal. You can hear voices coming from everywhere. Conversations overlap. People call your name from one room while someone else is telling a story in another. And the moment, even for a few seconds, you don’t hear anyone, you almost look around wondering, what happened?

Perhaps that is what a full house sounds like.

Eventually, we tie the Rakhus before the muhurat passes. There is the usual tilak, the thread around the wrist, blessings, and then mithai. We take photographs because, of course, every family ritual now needs photographic evidence.

But one of my favourite parts comes afterwards.

We all sit together and start comparing what everyone received.

What did you get?

How much did you get?

Show me yours.

There is something incredibly innocent about the conversation. It isn’t really about the gift. It is about sitting together and being interest in each others little moments.

And perhaps that is what I love most about Rakhi.

A thread, something so small and ordinary, becomes important because we collectively decided that it should mean something. India has a beautiful way of turning the smallest rituals into occasions of togetherness.

The thread itself is simple.

What surrounds it- the early morning, the Mihir at, the crowded house, the noise, the mithai, the photographs, the teasing, the gifts , and everyone sitting together- is what makes it a memory.