On Brothers Day 2021, I found myself scrolling through Instagram stories filled with throwback pictures of siblings, cricket matches, bike rides, and late-night Maggi sessions. Hashtags like #BrothersDay and #MyRock lit up timelines, accompanied by sentimental music and heartfelt captions. Yet amidst all the nostalgia, one particular post stopped me. It wasn’t a picture of two brothers by birth, but two friends — one Sikh, one Muslim — smiling together in front of a food stall in Old Delhi, captioned: “Not brothers by blood, but by choice. #BrothersDay2021.”
That caption lingered with me. In a country as vast and complex as India, the idea of brotherhood has evolved — no longer confined to genetic ties or traditional roles, but expanding to include chosen kinships, emotional alliances, and social solidarity that defy caste, creed, or gender. Brotherhood today is not only about rakhi rituals or shared surnames; it’s about emotional resilience, unspoken pacts, and mutual healing in a country constantly in flux.
Bloodlines and Beyond
Growing up in a middle-class home in Pune, my brother and I were like chalk and cheese. He loved statistics; I loved stories. He woke up at 6 AM sharp for cricket practice; I stayed up till 2 AM writing in my diary. Yet, no matter how far apart our interests drifted, we’d find ourselves huddled together during power cuts, playing antakshari or gossiping about relatives. Ours was the typical Indian sibling relationship: competitive, loyal, and occasionally passive-aggressive.
But over time, I noticed something: while my biological brother and I shared history, some of my closest “brothers” were actually friends. Like Rafiq, who stayed up all night with me when I had my first heartbreak. Or Sameer, my flatmate in Mumbai, who once stood up to a landlord trying to overcharge me just because I was a woman renting solo. These were bonds not forged in the womb, but through shared experience, compassion, and, often, hardship.
In Indian culture, where kinship traditionally determined everything — property rights, marriage decisions, even social status — the broadening of what it means to be a “brother” signals something powerful. It is a quiet revolution in emotional expression, particularly among men, who’ve long been discouraged from vulnerability.
The Brotherhood of the Unrelated
India’s cities are melting pots — from Bangalore’s tech hubs to Kolkata’s artistic alleys — and they have become breeding grounds for unexpected brotherhoods. Take the example of “Gully Boys,” a self-styled rap crew in Mumbai’s Dharavi, where young men from different religions and economic backgrounds come together to write lyrics about life, injustice, and hope. Their bond is not familial, but something just as sacred: a creative pact, built on dreams and survival.
Even in villages, where community often defines identity, the lines between “brother” and “friend” blur during festivals, farming seasons, and crises. In Tamil Nadu, during Cyclone Nivar, I heard of young men forming impromptu WhatsApp groups called “Anna Squad” — anna meaning elder brother in Tamil — to deliver food and assist the elderly. These weren’t state-sponsored volunteers. They were local teens and 20-somethings acting out of an unwritten code of brotherhood.
And then there’s the digital brotherhood — a phenomenon uniquely shaped by the internet. From Reddit threads where Indian students abroad help each other navigate visa problems, to PUBG squads that transform into lifelong WhatsApp groups, online spaces have created emotional corridors for brotherhood to thrive. It’s a curious thing: in a society that still holds onto joint family systems, people are also forming new-age joint emotional families across screens and cities.
Sacred Bonds, Secular Grounds
What makes brotherhood in India particularly poignant is its ability to transcend the country’s many fault lines. Caste, class, religion — these divisions have long defined who could be considered “one of us.” Yet, in moments of crisis, whether it’s a communal riot or a pandemic wave, stories emerge of strangers helping each other like brothers.
I remember during the deadly second wave of COVID-19 in 2021, a Sikh volunteer from Delhi named Harpreet Singh went viral for distributing oxygen cylinders at no cost. He referred to every patient — regardless of background — as “bhai” or “behen.” Watching his live videos, I couldn’t help but tear up. Brotherhood, here, was not theoretical. It was urgent, generous, and deeply Indian.
And let’s not forget the Bollywood influence. Films like Zindagi Na Milegi Dobara, Kai Po Che!, and even Dil Chahta Hai have reshaped how we perceive male bonding in the country — not as stoic or power-driven, but as intimate, vulnerable, and healing. These portrayals matter because they subtly dismantle toxic masculinity and offer a vision of emotional brotherhood that many young men are yearning for but don’t know how to articulate.
Brotherhood and the Burden of Expectation
Of course, not all is rosy. Brotherhood — both biological and metaphorical — carries its own weight. In many Indian families, male siblings are expected to be providers, protectors, decision-makers. Sometimes this translates into pressure, even suppression. A “brother” is supposed to be strong, dependable, unfaltering. But what if he’s not? What if he’s the one who needs saving?
One of my friends, a schoolteacher in Lucknow, once confided in me that he felt like a failure because he couldn’t help his younger sister financially during the lockdown. “What kind of brother am I?” he asked, his voice cracking. It made me realize that while we celebrate brotherhood, we must also allow space for its fragility.
Towards a New Definition
As India continues to urbanize, digitize, and reckon with its social hierarchies, brotherhood — once defined by bloodlines and patriarchal roles — is becoming something more democratic and emotional. It’s in the way a college senior mentors a nervous fresher. It’s in the way a gamer in Nagpur and a coder in Kochi cheer each other on in an online tournament. It’s in a group of strangers organizing relief in a WhatsApp group during floods in Assam.
So this Brothers Day, let’s widen the lens. Let’s celebrate not just our biological brothers, but also our chosen ones — the friends who pulled us out of depressive spirals, the colleagues who covered for us when we needed time off, the online strangers who became late-night confidants.
Brotherhood in modern India is no longer about who you were born with, but who stood by you when it counted.
