I pressed the pleats together one last time, made sure the fall was as right as the drape. I was wearing Mom’s saree, after all, and it was Rakhi, our favorite festival. For a finishing touch, I put her signature red bindi on my forehead. I busied myself in decorating the thaali on which the rakhis were placed, along with the flowers from our garden, the saffron and the rice grains.

I could feel Mom’s gentle presence, guiding me on what to do.

That’s the thing about mothers. They do so much silently, and we take them for granted in our small, cocooned world. And when they are gone you realize how you didn’t learn these customs and traditions from them. Because hey, you never imagined not having them by your side.

I would watch her year after year decorating the thaali and giving our cook instructions on what should be made for lunch. Her brothers and their sons (my adorable cousins) would be coming home for Rakhi, a tradition that’s been there ever since I can remember. There would be love, laughter, conversations, tying the rakhis of course, hugs, photographs, fighting over not taking the money hidden away in pretty envelopes from the brothers but then graciously accepting it as blessings or a sign of respect. After the food coma hit, we would all sprawl out on sofas and chairs to catch a power nap before they all left for their homes by the evening.

No wonder I call it my favorite festival. It honors and nurtures family bonds, it celebrates love, it brings forth respect for the young and old, and also gratitude for how blessed we are to have such beautiful, close knit, extended families.

But then life sends out reminders to tell you that even beautiful things aren’t forever, so savor these moments, cherish these relationships because you never know when they might be taken away from you.

I wasn’t sure what to expect this year with Mom and my Mama not being there, both having passed away within two years of each other. This was the first time Rakhi was being celebrated after these two enormous losses to our family. But I did what Mom would have wanted me to do.

“Hello Sister,” Chintu said in his usual, affectionate way, when he came home this Rakhi. We hugged and I held onto him for a tad few seconds longer. I think it was as difficult for him as it was for me, to imagine that it was just the two of us, carrying on this tradition in person this year, with two more of our brothers being in different cities.

I could hear Gogay Mama say “Hello, Sister” to Mom too, and her responding with “Hello, Birdar” (her own version of the term brother :). Except we would never get to hear this for real ever again.

Chintu and I caught up about how the pandemic had affected us, our work, life in general, trying to fill the silences and our pain with the comfort of each other’s presence. I finally told him that this was going to be so tough, without his Dad and my Mom. That was the last Rakhi I remember all of us being there, in 2016.

I would have asked Mom where we had to sit, which direction to face, what to do first. Should I put the flowers in the hand first, or put the tikka on the forehead first? I guess she had taught me without my realizing it. Somehow it all fell into place as Chintu and I went ahead with the rakhi tying.

It was like she was there, and so was my Mamu, watching over their children, taking pride in the fact that the baton had passed on to the next generation.

Mom would have been happy that I got Chintu’s favorite food made, and was fussing over him, like I always do. She may have wondered why I didn’t get my outrageously funny rakhi made this time for him, but would have understood that it still feels sombre without her and Mamu.

“Life goes on,” she would have said. And I would have said “I know, but…”

The silence after Chintu left filled me up. Earlier there would be the laughter and the banter, and the funny stories, and the loud voices of siblings trying to drown each other out. I smiled at the memory, of those carefree days, where love would be the order of the day.

We suddenly grow up when a parent passes away, don’t we? Responsibilities are taken more seriously and shouldered with more care; we start paying attention to the finer nuances of relationships that must be nurtured. They would have liked it that way. Our comfort zone shrinks, even though it takes a while; and we roll up our sleeves and carry their legacy forward.

“When you become a mother, you’ll know what I went through” is a common thing a daughter has heard from her mother.

Mom, I’ll never know what that feels like, but I do know that the mother you are to me forever lives on in my heart, eternally. Even as Time marches on fleetfootedly.

With family, Rakhi 2018, the last one with Mom.