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It was Rakhi a week later. The shops were laden with beautiful threads woven with love. The designs were intricate and creative. As usual for the elders their were threads which were subtle in color and for the young ones there were Rakhis ranging from Spiderman to the latest character. It was a beautiful sight and I loved to soak in the fervour of festivity. I would rummage shop after shop to find the perfect thread which would be appropriate for my brother. It would be my own personal game in which I would become like that plaited school girl once again,who would save her pocket money to buy the bestest Rakhi. I felt that I was still the same girl in a million ways, who had also transformed in many others. As I had two daughters' now,I had thought of a new tradition from this year and that was that they will tie Rakhi to each other. Though many in the family had scorned at the idea,I felt that was the best thing to do. I was happy in the thought that both of them would be there to take care of each other and that was what the real sentiment behind this festival was. A sister mourned the loss of her brother in a terrorist attack.
A sister lost her brother serving the nation. Yet another sat morose,because her brother had chosen to malign her and did not want to talk to her. Different lives, different people
But does the sisterhood or brotherhood change? Why do we become bigger than our own selves like the advertisements on the roads? I feel the loss is greater for the living,than for the dead. For the dead live in the memories,intact,preserved. The living dies with each mouthful of venom.
The choice is ours to make.