Raksha Bandha

Raksha Bandha—The Protective Bond Raakhee Suryaprakash It had been a long August night supervising the return fire—a kind of posturing continued even times of peace to discourage infiltration—which was the norm along the IndiaPakistan border in the state of Jammu and Kashmir. With the full moon lighting up the hilly passes more clearly than street lights such continuous firing essential. Colonel Dhrubo Chatterjee’s mind was lingering on an incident that had happened a couple of days ago. Fresh off the NDA and posted straight to the Himalayan borders well away from Bengal and the Hooglie, the twenty-one-year-old was missing family and fresh fish. Combined with his homesickness and the constant sound of gunfire, the Kashmiri youth’s word rung in his ears making him not just restless but suicidal as well. “Go back to your country Fauji!” the rosy-cheeked youth had shouted as Dhrubo passed him on the street. “We don’t need you. This is our home but we need ID cards to prove our citizenship while you foreign dogs walk around like you own it. GET LOST!” The youth’s friends had clamped his mouth shut and dragged him away before the uniformed man could retaliate. His words an echo in Dhrubo’s psyche. “What am I doing? Is my life worthwhile? Whose war am I fighting? Who am I protecting?” These questions chased themselves relentlessly as the moonlight guided Dhrubo to his barracks. As he removed his gun belt, he had to fight the temptation to take his pistol to his head. Just as he nearly gave in, his eyes fell on a thick envelop that he had missed in his preoccupation. He recognised his sister Ranjana’s handwriting. Putting down his gun belt and ripping open the letter Dhrubo’s eyes glistened with tears as it took in the ornate Rakhi that fell out. What a powerful bond—the one between a brother and sister! This sacred thread was to symbolise Raksha Bhandan—the promise of protection between siblings. The sister praying for her brother’s long life and the brother promising to protect and cherish her. It couldn’t have come at a better time. Thoughts of suicide were banished once and for all as he read his ten-year-old sister’s letter: Dearest Dhrubo Dhadha, Mummy gave me the box of Cadburys and the Hannah Montanna DVD you sent. Thank you for such nice Rakhi gifts. You are the best brother ever.

I loved the gifts, but I love you more. I miss you Dhadha. I know you have to be away from home to protect us. But I still miss you. My friends are so jealous that I have such a cool and brave brother. I prayed extra hard for your safety. I saved two month’s pocket money to buy the Rakhi and courier it to you. Hope you like it. Come home safe soon. Love, Ranjana. Wearing the Rakhi on his wrist and clutching the letter, his bit of home, to his heart, Dhrubo fell into a deep healing sleep . . . the gunfire falling on deaf ears for once. *** It was a cheerful colonel who passed the batch of soldiers preparing to take the National Pledge the next morning on his way to call home. As he listened to the excited chatter of his sister, the poignant words of the National Pledge boomed across the army outpost reaffirming their purpose: India is my country and all Indians are my brothers and sisters . . . To my country and my people, I pledge my devotion. In their well being and prosperity alone, lies my happiness. JAI HIND