An Ode to Siblings Who Celebrate Rakhi Across the Miles

I never knew that leaving home one day to chase my dreams would also mean stepping into a long-distance relationship with my best friend, my actual partner in crime, with the baby I held first in my arms when he was just born and I was only 3 as I looked him in the eye and we knew, saari umar hamein sang rahna hai, my little brother.
When I stepped onto the train last year as I departed for college, I was excited because it was like a trip to all that I had always dreamed of: freedom, autonomy, and the exhilaration of living in a new city and interacting with new people. It was, however, on my first Raksha Bandhan after leaving home that I understood that being away from home was not without a price. I knew I had left something and someone really precious behind. A part of my soul. My younger brother.
I remember calling him that morning. He was still half-asleep, but the first thing he said was, “Didi, you’re not here… so who’s going to force me to take a bath before tying the Rakhi?” I smiled at him, but it was in that moment that I knew, I knew nothing mattered more than being with my little brother. And I knew I had lost it, I knew how a part of my childhood was gone now, a tradition, our tradition, that was lost, forever.
Because Raksha Bandhan without my little brother’s eyerolls, without our annual argument over who gets the bigger slice of Mom’s special laddoos or what do we do with the money I get as a gift, without that warm, playful hug, it just didn’t feel the same, it might never would.

People think distance makes you miss the big milestones like birthdays, graduations, festivals, and that going away from home is only about leaving your comfort zone, missing your parents, and of course, the classic ghar ka khana. And yes, it does, and it is. But what it really steals are the little things.
Those lazy Sunday afternoons we spent on the couch, fighting for who gets the remote and ultimately ending up watching reruns of cartoons we’d always loved. Saving bits of money and collecting coins to buy snacks and those late-night walks to the corner shop for ice cream. The way he’d steal my hair ties and use them to fling paper balls at me or hide my things just to irritate me and make me run behind him. Or simply the silent comfort of knowing he was just a room away if I needed to rant, cry, or just exist without explanation.
And these aren’t the moments you capture in photo albums or post on Instagram. But they’re what makes you call a house a ‘home’.

The first time we celebrated Rakhi apart, it felt strange. I couriered the Rakhi days in advance, carefully picking one I thought he’d like, strong enough to last, but not so flashy that he’d roll his eyes at it. But when he called to show me, he’d tied it himself, and I smiled through the screen, I noticed even from miles apart how he didn’t seem happy about it either, how he wanted me to do that for him like I had done since the first time he ever knew what Raksha Bandhan was.
But with the distance between us, we’ve built our own version of the tradition. Every year, I send the Rakhi, the one I personally go and buy and not simply order, and then I also tuck in a handwritten letter full of little memories and promises, which I send to him. In return, he sends me a picture of himself wearing it, with that same awkward grin he’s had since he was ten, or maybe five (because for me, he’ll always be the little boy who hid behind me whenever he was in a problem).
Sure, it’s not the same as physically being there, with him, tying it around his wrist, feeling the warmth of his skin, and hearing him mutter, “Don’t make it too tight, Didi!” But it’s ours. A thread stretched across miles, still holding strong.

One of my favorite Rakhi memories was when he was seven and I was twelve. He barged into my room at dawn, clutching the Rakhi in one hand and a chocolate bar in the other, declaring, “Tie it now, I have cartoons to watch!”
Or the year I had to go to school on Raksha Bandhan for some event, and he waited for me to come back and tie Rakhi before he had food.
Another year, he bargained like a little businessman over his gift, “If you give me an extra five hundred rupees, I’ll even let you borrow my headphones for a week.” Sometimes even going as far as asking me to share my gift with him, arguing that he is younger and so should be pampered.
All these little negotiations we did were never about money or gifts; those materialistic things never mattered. They were about sharing this beautiful bond of siblinghood, the push and pull, the teasing, and the giving in.

As we grow older, Raksha Bandhan changes. It’s no longer just about the ritual of tying a Rakhi and giving gifts anymore. It becomes a confirmation, a guarantee of one that we swore years ago without even knowing it when we were kids, a vow of always taking care of one another, guarding one another, and showing up for each other, a vow that transcends distance.
When I left, I feared he would grow up and mature beyond our attachment, or he would no longer need me like he had always needed me. But with each year, I’ve learned something: siblings don’t need constant presence to stay connected. A random late-night “Did you eat?” text. A shared meme only we’d get. A video call just to show me the rain outside his window or to tease me while he eats something I like. These are our modern-day Rakhis, a thread so pure that it might be invisible, but it is unbreakable too.
So, every year, when that thread, I have selected, touches his wrist, it’s not just a symbol of love, it’s a quiet reminder that despite the miles between us, my heart still and shall always will, beat a little softer for my “little” brother.

Distance has taught me that “home” isn’t always the four walls you grew up in. It’s wherever your family and, most importantly, your sibling is. Home isn’t a physical thing but a feeling of pure love and joy. It is in your brother’s laugh over the phone, in your little arguments over the most stupid things, and it is in the way he simply says “Didi” in a particular tone, and you know what he wants. Home is actually the comfort of knowing that somewhere out there, your sibling is living their life with the confidence that you’ve got their back, as they have got yours, always.
Raksha Bandhan, for me, is surely not the same anymore. But the celebration of siblinghood never ended. What we once formed as physical rituals have grown and adapted to the distance, just like we did. It’s those funny pictures we post of each other on Rakhi every year, and those weird gifts he sends me. It’s me video calling to wake him up at 6 AM, and him asking for my pictures to check if I still take the effort to dress up or not. The day has become a celebration of our evergreen love that has only strengthened with time and distance, as every year we share memories packed in envelopes, each a reminder that somewhere out there in the world, there is that one person who’ll always be there for us.
So, to my dear little brother: even if I’m not there to tie the Rakhi to you, always know that my love will still be around you just the same, so will our bond.
Because miles can only measure the distance, but never the love.

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1. How can I make Raksha Bandhan feel special when my sibling lives far away?
   You can send them personalized gifts like a curated gift box with their favourite items or instead opt for handmade things like letters, cards etc.
2. Is it okay to send an e-Rakhi instead of a physical one?
   Definitely, all that matters is love, the form of sending that love could differ.
3. What kind of gifts work best for long-distance siblings?
   Gifts that make them feel special and feel your love and presence, it could be anything personalized or handmade.
4. What are some signs that your sibling misses you on Rakhi too?
   The subtle signs like early morning wishes or calls, or playful complaints about missing the rituals often reveal longing.