“Distance might keep hands from tying knots, but it can’t untie the bonds written in childhood laughter and sacred rituals."- Tash

It was just another chaotic Saturday, the kind where you're racing against time, dodging rogue trolleys in the supermarket.

Somewhere between picking coriander that looked half dead and being overcharged for tomatoes, I’d made a quick dash to the Indian grocery store. The place was its usual, bursting with the aroma of masalas, Bollywood music humming through dusty speakers, and aunties in heated discussions about the correct brand of atta. But then… something made me stop.

There they were.

Rows upon rows of Rakhis, sparkling, colourful, some delicate, others were flashy enough to be mistaken for wedding jewellery. There were ones with cartoon characters, tiny beads, golden coins, and even Lord Krishna playing a flute.

Everything else faded.

It was as if someone had pressed pause on the noisy store, and I was standing alone in an old memory. A wave of warmth, mischief, and longing swept over me like a monsoon gust.

So, what is a Rakhi?

A Rakhi is a sacred thread tied by a sister on her brother’s wrist during Raksha Bandhan. This traditional festival celebrates the bond between siblings, a thread woven with love, memories, and an unspoken promise of protection.

But it’s so much more than that. It’s a day where sibling banter gets paused (briefly), where brothers sit tall with pride, and sisters have a license to demand gifts in return for blessings.

I was about five and ready for the runway.

I could still feel the cool denim of my skirt brushing against my knees, my crisp white t-shirt tucked in, and my denim jacket worn like I was auditioning for a Spice Girls reunion. But over it all, I wore a red dupatta delicately draped over my head.

For those unfamiliar, a dupatta is a long, flowing scarf worn by South Asian women, often as a sign of modesty and grace, especially during spiritual or auspicious ceremonies. On occasions like Raksha Bandhan, wearing it is a mark of respect, both to the tradition and to the ancestors probably watching from above with chai in hand.

A small red bindi adorned my forehead, and yes, I was rocking red lipstick even then.

In my tiny hands, I held a thali, a decorative plate used in religious rituals, adorned that day with fresh fruits, homemade sweets like gulab jamun and my all-time favourite: the radiant green barfi. Sitting proudly on the thali was the red teeka (vermilion powder) and the sacred mauli, the thread I would soon tie on my brother’s wrist, asking for his protection and promising mine.

He sat on the chair like a tiny king. His chest puffed with pride, eyes twinkling, ready to accept this honour as though he’d been knighted. My parents stood by, smiles stitched across their faces.

Then came my mum’s traditional recital:

“Chand chadiya Reshma, Thaiya chadhi lo,
Natasha nai rakhi bandhli,
Ashish Bhaiya lakh sao saal jee yo.”

It was a poetic blessing, in essence, praying for my brother’s long life. I didn’t fully understand it then, but I knew its rhythm by heart, and the love it carried wrapped around me like that dupatta.

We exchanged sweets, fed each other like two poorly trained flight attendants, my hand shaking with excitement and sticky syrup dripping everywhere.

And then came my favourite part, the gift. In our house, that meant cold, hard cash.

The moment I saw the note in his hand; I snatched it and ran. Like, Olympic-level sprint. My denim skirt flying, my dupatta trailing behind me like a superhero cape. My brother’s expression morphed from pride to pure betrayal.

“But Daddy! She didn’t give me anything!” he cried, devastated.

“Beta,” said my father, calm as ever, “she blessed you for a long life and to always be by your side. There isn’t a gift better than that.” With that, my brother thought about it and smiled.

Years rolled on, and soon my little sister came into the equation. A fierce, sassy soul with curious eyes and a strong will. As her older sister, I took it upon myself to teach her the rituals, from balancing the thali to chanting our mum’s poetic lines without stumbling.

We carried the tradition forward, year after year. Until one day, I packed my bags and left for Australia.

Since then, every Raksha Bandhan has been... different.

And there I was, in that grocery aisle. Staring at those Rakhi’s, the fluorescent lights above flickering like an old Bollywood flashback sequence. It hit me, how much I missed it all. The thali, the sweets, the poetry, the laughter, the running, the emotional blackmail for better gifts.

I remembered how, before leaving, I had collected all the rakhis I could find for my brother, carefully tucked away, promising myself that one day, I’d tie every single one on his wrist. And that I’d make it up to my little sister for carrying out my role for over 12 years, every ritual, every joke, every fight and every giggle we’d missed.

Looking at the Rakhi’s, I whispered a quiet vow:
One day, I’ll be home for Raksha Bandhan.
And when I am, it’ll be glorious.

Because Raksha Bandhan isn’t just a ritual.
It’s a memory. A melody. A promise.
A thread that doesn’t fray, no matter how far you go.