The thread's frayed now and the color has faded to almost nothing. I keep it in a small box in my cupboard anyway.
He's abroad. Has been for years. These days what comes on Rakhi is a bank transfer and maybe a courier — nice things, generous things. Not the same. There's no version of a wire transfer that reaches your wrist.
I know he's doing well and I know the distance isn't his fault. I'm not angry about any of it.
I'd just give back every gift he's ever sent for one more year of him sitting across from me, fumbling with the thread, tying it on himself. That's it. That's the whole trade I'd make.