The Promise Behind My Rakhi

Today, August 28, 2026, is a Raksha Bandhan Day. In alignment with SAMHIN’s mission to foster open dialogue around mental health within the South Asian community and spotlight the voices driving this important work we invited Aanya Jajoo to share her reflections on the cultural and mental health relevance and importance of the Rakhi tying custom.

Growing up in a big family, Raksha Bandhan felt like a day made for my cousin, sisters, and me. The festival celebrates the bond between siblings. Traditionally, sisters tie a rakhi, or sacred thread, around their brothers’ wrists as a symbol of love and protection. I remember all of us together, tying rakhis, playing, and waiting to see what gifts our brothers had gotten us. I did not think deeply about what the thread meant. The elders said our brothers would always protect us and remain by our side, and I believed them. Protection was less a promise I understood than a feeling of being surrounded by family and trusting they would be there.

As we grew older, the gatherings became less frequent. After high school, I began mailing rakhis to my cousin brothers. The one rakhi I continued to tie was on my brother Atharva’s wrist. As the elder daughter, I felt responsible for taking care of him. The rakhi no longer felt like only his promise to protect me. It began to feel like my promise too.

At first, I expressed that care by trying to manage him. I would nag him until he said, “Aanya, I already have a mother. I don’t need two!” I thought protecting him meant preventing his mistakes. Instead, it often pushed him away. Living in different cities taught me to care for him differently. Protection began to mean advocating for him, respecting his space, keeping his secrets, and reminding him that I was a call away. I stopped trying to be another parent and started learning how to be a safe place. As Atharva grew older, I realized that he had become one for me too.

Driving has always made me anxious. Even after getting my license at eighteen, living in New York made driving easy to avoid. During visits to India, my parents would push me to drive, but I made excuses and asked Atharva to drive instead. One evening in Mumbai, he pulled over and said, “Aanya, the roads are empty, and I’m right here. You are going to drive us home.” I refused, but he did not budge. Eventually, I took the wheel. As cars and motorcycles passed us on the narrow roads, he stayed calm and guided me home. He also helped me parallel park. Then he gently said, “I always knew you could do it.” I felt protected, not because he took over, but because he stayed beside me until I could do it myself.

A year ago, I was going through a breakup and was sick during a rough week. We were in different cities, but he called every day. He usually ends our calls first, yet that week he stayed until I was ready to hang up. He checked whether I had eaten and offered to DoorDash me food. Because he is introverted and rarely talks for long, I knew those calls required effort. He noticed what I needed even when I could not ask for it. I felt seen, cared for, and less alone.

Our relationship has grown from occasional conversations into weekly check-ins and daily outfit pictures. Somewhere along the way, we stopped speaking because we were supposed to and chose to stay connected.

I once thought the rakhi represented a brother standing in front of his sister to protect her. Now, I think it represents siblings standing beside each other. When I tie a rakhi on Atharva’s wrist, I am promising to remain his safe space, knowing that he has become mine too.

By Aanya Jajoo
Aanya Jajoo (she/her) is a graduate student in mental health counseling at Teachers College, Columbia University. Her clinical interests include adolescent and family therapy, intergenerational trauma, and culturally responsive mental health care. She is a dedicated SAMHIN volunteer.