Rescue
I was very young when I was taught about the Indian festival of Raksha Bandhan. This is one of the many cutural festivals that cuts across all other boundaries and much has been made of this sweetly innocent tradition, how it transcends religion and community, and the unity of this nation that it represents. As we are all increasingly aware, these platitudes disguise a deeply rooted patriarchal tradition which is toxic and seemingly unending. It too cuts across all other boundaries. A woman is often seen only as a symbol of family or community ‘honour’, and the protector treats her as property that must be safeguarded.
It is imperative that both women and men redefine who needs rescuing and from whom, or indeed, if any rescuing is needed at all. Increasingly, I see young kids tying rakhis on each other’s wrists, regardless of gender, and feel optimistic that this festival is at least evolving in a positive way to suit modern gender roles.
Many women of my mother’s generation however still bought into the superficial sweetness and sanctity of the bond formed when a woman ties a thread on the wrist of a man, making him her ‘brother’ for life. This brings with it the mutual agreement that the sister will always pray for her brother’s wellbeing and in return, he will always protect her and rescue her in times of trouble. My mother too was a firm believer in this tradition. She tied the rakhi for her blood brother and one other gentleman, who sent her a letter and a gift every Raksha Bandhan in exchange for her annual letter and rakhi. I was born the youngest child and only girl in a family of brothers. I had two brothers and two cousin brothers who lived close by. Naturally, by the time i was three years old, I was tying rakhis for all four. I adored my four older brothers who spoilt me rotten. Then a fifth rakhi was added to the list when my younger cousin was born. I didn’t really known him very well – we had moved away to another town by the time he was born. I sent rakhis to different parts of the world now and tied a couple in person.
Ten years later, the number reduced to four when one of my brothers gave up on life and family and rescuing sisters. It simultaneously increased to seven when I began tying a rakhi for three close friends. More life happened, I had a falling out with one friend who returned the rakhi a few years later. Another friend who I sent a rakhi to for the first time that same year died in a drowning accident far from home. His cadet brother wrote to me saying that my friend had received the rakhi and had showed it off to his air force batch mates as the first one he’d ever received. Two unused rakhis in the same year could only mean bad karma. I swore then that no new rakhis were going out ever again. The number held steady at six for almost twenty five years until last year. My younger cousin sent me a sweet letter and a gift on Raksha Bandhan as he had done ever since he started earning a salary. A few days later, he was dead of a heart attack.
So this year, I sent out five rakhis. I no longer believe in the myth of brothers rescuing sisters, I know that we rescue ourselves more often than not and sometimes, brothers are as much in need of rescuing as sisters. The rakhis go out now more to remind me that there are decent men out there, men who have stood by me through everything life has thrown at me. Our equation, especially with my eldest cousin, has evolved to a more equitable and rewarding relationship. I send them to remind these same men that I am the sister who has their back. To reassure them that though I am fiercely protective of their welfare, I also won’t hesitate to call them out when they screw up. I expect no less from them. Happy Raksha Bandhan.