Rakshabandhan, or Balev as we know it in my mom's side of the family, has always been a huge affair. From an emotional standpoint, it's bigger than Diwali. The whole family would get together, and then the Rakhi ritual would be carried out in multiple rounds, by generation. When my grandmom was alive, her brothers would come visit to get rakhis tied. Then my two mamas, dressed in crisp white kurta-pajamas, would sit next to each other, and mom and the two masis would take turns to tie them rakhis. Till this day, my younger mama doesn't eat anything on the day of Balev until at least one of the sisters has tied him Rakhi. It was never spoken, but you could sense the silent, solemn renewal of promise between all five siblings of always being there for each other. Then it was our generation's turn. The five brothers, grudgingly dressed in kurtas and the gold chains that were worn about twice a year, would sit in a row, and the seven sisters, dressed in their finest dress