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The Tradition Of Rakshabandhan Sunny Singh Sunny Singh was born in Varanasi. She received her education in various parts of India and the world. She has worked as a journalist, teacher, and as a management executive for multinationals in Mexico, Chile and South Africa. For the last four years, she has been writing full-time. She is also a playwright. Her first play, Birthing Athena, focussed on evolving relationships and the price of ambition in post-liberalisation India. The Times of India described the play as "an intensely cathartic experience." Her first novel, Nani's Book of Suicides, had been recently published by Harper Collins Publishers India. Described by the Hindustan Times as a "first novel of rare scope and power," the novel explores the cultural identity of an Indian woman through a fund of myths, family lore and contemporary reality. Her second book, Single in the City: The independent woman's handbook was released on Dec 22, 2000 by Penguin India.

By the end of July each year, I start out on a major annual project: the creation of rakhis for a range of cousins and a younger brother. Of course, at this time of the year, the markets are filled with rakhis in all kinds of colours, sizes and styles. For the past couple of years, jewellery shops have even been offering silver and gold ones, which, I must admit, don't make much sense to me.

For as long as I can remember, Rakshabandhan has been an important festival in my life. Our family runs short on girl children (my grandmother said only those who had earned a lot of "punya" or merit were blessed with daughters). Which means that on Rakshabandhan, cousins ranging in ages from two to thirty five clamour for rakhis. And each one of them is rewarded by a thin red and yellow silk thread that I braid myself.

As a child, these rakhis were simply a piece of silk embroidery thread taken from my grandmother's sewing box. As I grew older, and my fingers grew more dextrous, a couple of beads were strung on to the rakhi. Later still - and until recently - I braided flat bands, similar to those that are sold in Mexican marketplaces as "friendship" bands for my brothers. There was an added advantage to these bands: they lasted longer than a normal rakhi, and since they were flat, they were easy to mail to various parts of the world.

Which brings me to the problem I have with gold and silver rakhis. In the dim past of our ancient tradition, the priest tied "raksha" or a red/yellow thread on to the patron's wrist after a puja ceremony (and they still do). Today, all those who attend the puja also receive the "raksha." Symbolically, the thread signifies two things: firstly, a promise of divine protection from God, and on a material level, the patronage (and in past centuries, protection) of the priest by devotee.

The rakhi has a similar symbolism, except that on "Rakshabandhan", brothers promise protection and care to their sisters in exchange for that string of silk. As traditional systems break down, in face of liberalization and other socio-economic changes, many of us have forgotten the necessity of such a promise.

In the centuries gone by, a rakhi ensured political, material and military fealty. One legend tells of a Rajput queen who asked her arch-enemy, Humayun, the Mughal emperor for assistance in battle against another kingdom. Her missive was accompanied by a rakhi. Not surprisingly, Humayun complied by setting off with his army to defend her kingdom.

Today, to turn that sacred thread into bracelets of silver and gold may seem more luxurious, but it seems to demean the symbolism that a fragile, plain, cheap, and yet priceless string of silk has held over centuries.

In the past, when communications and travel were difficult, rakhi ensured that women were guaranteed life-long safety, even when they moved away to their marital homes. In the political circles, these marital homes were often in other kingdoms. Despite the distances, a woman could summon an army, or other resources, based on the promises that are made with a rakhi.

This is one reason that rakhi must be seen in conjunction with another festival, which occurs in the rainy season, and reinforces the kinship ties established by Rakshabandhan: Teej. While popular culture today, especially on television and films, connects this day with marital bliss, and supreme wifely devotion, the fraternal relationships linked to this festival are generally overlooked.

Teej too celebrates the ties a woman has with her natal family, and especially with her brothers. My first memories as a child are of this festival and are linked with my grandmother's brothers. Her brothers would travel across the country to reach our house on Teej. And they would arrive loaded with gifts of saris and jewellery for their sister. They would deliver sacks of wheat and rice and spend the day with my grandmother.

Only as an adult did I realise the significance of their visits. Teej gave them the opportunity to check on their sister's wellbeing, provide her with a reminder of their continued affection and support, and leave her with independent financial resources that were at her sole discretion. For women who didn't work and had little contact with the outside world, such fraternal visits were often their only source of succour. In families with a feudal tradition, these visits also issued a veiled warning to the woman's marital family, a clear hint that the woman was neither alone nor unprotected.

On each Rakshabandhan, I remind my younger cousins of this particular significance: that we must continue to be responsible for each other, despite changes in lifestyle and marital status. For myself, I rely on this annual reassurance of our pledge of mutual support.

Today, internet rakhi delivery services have made the traditional mailing system nearly obsolete. Markets carry everything from plain silk strings to Tweety-bird rakhis that play tunes from the latest film. Lame excuses about my hectic life crop up annually, along with unkept resolutions to make time next year, to explain why my hand-made rakhis are now simply a colourful silk strand stuffed into an envelope. Last year, I tried sending e-rakhis to my cousins in a futile bid to move with the times.

But some things remain unchanged: my younger brother assures me that when I marry, he will faithfully make the annual pilgrimage to my home on Teej, complete with a green sari; and my six-year-old cousin promises to take care of me when I am old and tottering. Of course, there are other childish promises: one Mercedes for every rakhi, from a car-crazy ten-year old who isn't satisfied with simply gifting me his pocket money; wild ambitions of fighting a battle for me, just in case I need a warrior from another pre-teen; and at the end of the ceremony, a lot of sweaty, grubby kisses from little boys and bashful hugs from the teenaged ones.

But on Rakshabandhan day, one thing brings me the greatest joy: the sight of my brother and cousins proudly sporting their rakhis on their wrists. And that is why I won't be sending any e-rakhis this year: a nine-year-old cousin pointed out last year that he couldn't wear an e-rakhi on his wrist. In his own words (which succinctly express the essence of Rakshabandhan): "Send me a real rakhi that I can show everyone. I want everyone to know that I have sisters because boys who don't have sisters are really pathetic."

Honestly, that is the best compliment I have received in my entire life!

Until we connect again....

Credits

The rakhi graphics courtesy: http://shopping.indianservice.com//

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