Raksha Bandhan. It hits different for me.
Because of a story. My story.
MANJU MY SISTER.
It’s about Manju.
Let’s go back. Way back. 1981 or maybe 1982. Doesn’t matter.
We had left Lansdowne almost a decade ago. Small, sleepy Lansdowne. Nothing much ever happened there.
In ‘71 or ‘72, my family shifted to Jabalpur. I was in 3rd standard. New friends, new colony, new school. Life moved on.
But Manju didn’t.
She was my mouh-boli behen. Two years older. My elder brother Rajiv’s age. No real brother of her own.
We were inseparable. Friends. Partners in crime. She lived right across from our house on the slope near Sadar Bazaar.
Every Rakhi, she would tie the thread. Simple. Pure. That’s how I got my first sister.
Even when my real sister Mamta was born five years later, Manju’s Rakhi still came first.
But after moving to Jabalpur, that stopped.
For 10 long years, no Rakhi from Manju.
Then came 1981.
I was 18. I went back to Lansdowne. First time in a decade.
Same old house. Thes same hills. Same market.
Manju’s house was still there.
I stopped. Looked up. Half expecting her to wave, shout my name. Silly hope.
News spread fast. Sanju was back. Kanchan’s younger son had returned. Old neighbours dropped by. Warmth. Conversations.
That evening, I walked up to Manju’s house.
There she was. As if nothing had changed.
We talked. Laughed. Picked up where we had left.
And then… she brought out a thali.
It had 10 Rakhis.
One for every year she hadn’t sent.
No reason why she kept them. She just did.
It wasn’t even Raksha Bandhan that day. Didn’t matter.
What mattered was her heart.
She tied them all. One by one.
I walked out of her house with 10 Rakhis on my wrist. Felt like the richest brother alive.
Life went on. We lost touch.
News trickled in — marriage, kids, she moved to Alwar.
But there was no contact.
Until 2017.
Her daughter found me on Facebook. “Are you Sanju Mamma?” she asked.
And just like that, the thread re-tied itself.
Today, her Rakhi comes before anyone else’s. Every year. Always early. Always special.
MY FAVOURITE SISTERS.
I have six sisters. I have more sisters and I know it is wrong to rank them, but here are my favourite six sisters.
Manju. You know her story now.
Aradhana. Elder by two months. Lives in Dehradun. Never tied Rakhi to me. It pinches, but somehow that ritual never found a way between my cousins from my father’s side. But she’s special. Always has been- always will be.
Mamta. My real sister. Youngest of us three. Her Rakhi is now always on time. Small victories.
Monica. My Mausi’s daughter. In Pune now. Her Rakhi comes with a short, sweet personal note in her crispy clean handwriting. On time. Every time.
Ragini (Kaku). My Bhuli No.1. Also Dehradun. Our bond? Can’t explain it. It just is—her Rakhi — sometimes late, sometimes missing. But then that is now acceptable. Though with the years, she is now as punctual as my other sisters.
Sheela Chaturvedi. Friend’s sister. Became mine somewhere along the way. She helped me a lot during my emotional journey while at engineering college. No, there has been never a Rakhi from her side, but then a piece of thread does not define such relationships. Doesn’t change a thing. One day, when I meet her face to face, I’ll tell her how much she means to me.
Every year, I think of going to Dehradun. To tie Rakhis in person. To be with Mamta and Kaku.
Somehow, plans fail.
Maybe 2026 will be different. Maybe that Friday, 28th August, I’ll finally be there.
Because brothers don’t need reasons. They just need sisters.
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