To turn up,
When the brother comes, she will tie up a rakhi,
A colourful wrist band for this festivity sake
On his hand,
Offering him a red vermillion paste
On the forehead,
Offering sweets,
Showing the candle light,
Making the fire a witness of that
What it is sacred and lasting hereon,
She prays for his life
So that he may see her.
The eyes looking tearful
And the face sad and gloomy,
Remembering the brother
Who has not turned up
Or has forgotten,
Maybe engaged elsewhere
Into the activities of his own
Or the bindings otherwise,
Thinking it, grows she sad, lonely and dejected,
Nor has an ordinary letter
Often delayed by the post-office
Has come to,
Just the tears welling up in
And falling down,
The brother has not turned up,
Not sure of if her rakhi has reached him or not
Or has lost in transit.