In the past few years, I’ve tried to maintain an indifference towards religious festivities, but growing up in a Catholic household, it’s impossible to escape Christmas in December. And Christmas carols are the month’s designated soundtrack.

I remember clutching my father’s finger as we made our way through the crowd at the Golden Temple. My head was covered with mother’s red dupatta; I was clenching onto a ₹100 note for dear life until I managed to slip it inside the donation box. That was always my “duty” and I would take it very seriously.

Halloween is too in-your-face. Bhoot Chaturdashi, which falls on the night before Diwali, has the kind of suspense that plays with your mind. I remember peering into the dark fearfully, thinking twice about making that trip to the bathroom on my own, lest a spirit held my body hostage.

In an India divided over Ram, our willingness to not other Raavan, can serve as a unifier. Our inclination to acknowledge a different point of view – to break the idea of Raavan as a stock evil cardboard villain – is an example of the part of India that is still open to ideas. Raavan gives us that hope.

With two sisters and no brothers, my FOMO would peak annually during Raksha Bandhan season. Older and wiser, I don’t believe the rakhi is exclusively meant only for male siblings and cousins, but every one who protects us, showers us with love and wisdom, and makes life a little more playful and colourful.