The sun rose bright today. As I opened the tin door, I noticed that more dried jackfruit leaves than usual had fallen in the yard. I was about to quickly sweep them away and head off to wash the dishes when Tribeni appeared. She hurriedly reminded me about some preparations and left just as fast.
Old memories surfaced, an August morning like this, my sister calling out to me, tying a rakhi on my wrist, the scent of paddy, durva grass, and the soft glow of oil lamps.
It has been three months since I left home. I have lit my stove in Binjam village of Dantewada. Today is Raksha Bandhan. In the curling smoke, memories of home drift up. On festival days, home feels especially close. I scroll through my gallery, photos of my village, my people, our festivals. Melancholy sits beside me and pinches my heart.
They say time heals even the deepest wounds. In Binjam, I have spent just a little over a month. The number of familiar faces has crossed two hundred. Among those newly known faces, a few gifted me the happiest day of the last three months on Raksha Bandhan itself. Tribeni, Lipika, Garima, and Karishma tied threads on my wrist threads woven with love, trust, faith, and reassurance.
I meet them often. Just yesterday, Lipika had said,
“Bhaiya, tomorrow we’ll come to tie rakhi.”
But Kavita didi, she is no longer from Binjam. I had met her only for three days at the end of last June. After that, we had no contact, not even over the phone. Yet she remembered me. Crossing forty kilometers from Bhansi, she came all the way to Binjam just to tie a rakhi on my wrist.
That is an immense blessing. My home didn’t know Kavita didi, yet she came. When she stopped her scooter in front of my house, a wave of joy surged through my heart. She stood there smiling at my surprise and said, “Bhaiya, you live so far inside! We got tired searching for your place.”
I didn’t know what to reply. It felt like I had stumbled upon heaven. In that moment, I thanked God again and again for creating such bonds in an unfamiliar land. I don’t want to rank life’s greatest achievements, but this has no comparison.
I don’t know what virtue earned me a Raksha Bandhan like this. Standing before such love and sincerity, I kept wondering what can one give in return? Can any gift ever equal this feeling? I found no answer. Around three in the afternoon, Kabida arrived at my place. Kavita didi, her sister, and Kabida sat with me, chatting for about half an hour. Then we decided to go out for a short trip, unaware that it would gift me an unforgettable evening.
Today was not only Raksha Bandhan, but also World Indigenous Peoples’ Day. I thought we would attend some public program. Instead of a crowded ground, Kabida took me to his home nestled against the hills. Wildflowers of every color, hibiscus blooms, and a gentle breeze calmed my restless mind.
Sipping sweet milk tea, dusk slowly descended. After a long time, I watched clusters of fireflies dancing on tree branches. A call came from inside the house. Kabida’s elder sister laid out a mat and invited me to sit. In the soft glow of the lamp, I saw my future reflected in the welcoming tray.
I often say I won’t return home too frequently. That I want to know the people where I am, observe their lives, experience cultural diversity firsthand. Yet when festivals appear on the calendar, when social media overflows with others’ celebrations, it aches deeply. Then I understand: home is not just a place; it is a few faces, a few familiar calls, a few festival names. And over that emptiness, on unfamiliar soil, people like Kavita didi gently place a healing balm.
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