"But more than that... a father." (Part 3, Conclusion.)
I dedicate this post (the conclusion of my father-daughter story) to my own dad. (1942-2023)
He passed away 2 weeks ago today.
.
It’s in large part because of Dad that I have this category for “a person whose deeds are actually better than the ethics he claims to subscribe to.” (I know, I know, an ambiguous legacy!)
So, you see, when I say:
”There’s a difference between the ethic that you claim to hold and the ethic which holds sway over choices—and the latter is reveal in the moment your convictions are truly tested.”
…I’m saying: “Sometimes the ethic of ones choices is better than the ethic that he voices.”
The first installment for this story is here.
If you want a summary, click the link to jump to this footnote: 1
After that, our narrator continues:
A father in any land imagines different possible futures for his child. But I have learned from travelers that not every father imagines the futures for multiple lives of their child. So many possible lives—and how am I to guess what she will be born as next? For this life, I imagined Neela as a wife to one of the village men, and so she was! I prayed she could continue healthy and hard-working, living out her life productively, her hands fashioning bread and baking it. And they would be kind hands, caring for the children I had dreamed would be born to her.
But I also dreamed of the far future; perhaps in another life, she would be of a noble family; perhaps she would wear fine jewels, travel in a palanquin and become skilled at singing. What would she be named, and would I be in her life, and how would I know it was her? I could almost wish to be a slave in her palace if I could only watch her life and know that it was my own Neela! My fondest dream, though, was boy-Neela, with a sword and a pony. Oh, Neela as a boy—that would be quite a handful!
It was just so easy to imagine Neela gathering in success every which way she turned. Very quick of mind. When she was a child, she would listen in on her older brothers’ lessons, and often answer before them. (Her grandmother was determined to make a proper lady of her though, and so put a stop to that.) She would always be the first to lead neighbor girls in games. Courageous too. Once, her brothers were trying to keep alive an injured jackdaw—a thing from which they had been forbidden. Accidentally, she discovered them bringing succor to the frail bird under a tree. Just a short time later, Deena observed the four of them clustered together and turned to walk over. Neela, ever watchful, noticed her mother first and immediately marched up to her. She said nothing, but looked shame-faced, and let Deena conclude what she would—that the bird was being sheltered at Neela’s instigation. And she was successful, receiving all the punishment and shielding all three of her brothers. Neela was valiant even in her misconduct.
Now I must contradict myself, though. She was not valiant in ALL her misconduct. On bad days, when Neela was disrespectful to me or to her mother, we would fear a decline. After my daughter’s wrathful outbursts, several times terrible dreams would come to me - dreams of her being re-born as rat-Neela — or a skittering spider-Neela. Could even I myself identify that such a creature was Neela? ...provided I lived long enough to see her in a second life. If I were to outlive my own child. And that is very much to the point.
Last night, just after her husband succumbed to the fever, it seemed quite certain I would outlive my daughter. Then came the first surprise—nobody could find Neela! Her mother-in-law and father-in-law were soon at my doorstep, questioning her brothers: “Where could Neela have hidden herself?” The second shock came when a cry went up—“We have found the traitor!” From an old storage shed of the temple, a trembling woman was led out into the dark. Men and women, bearing torches flanked her on both sides; a search party raised to frenzy. “Carry her out to be burned!” they cried. Surely, Neela was trapped now. Then the captive screamed, “No! No! Innocent!” Finally, a light was held near her face. And then they saw she was only the niece of my old neighbor’s wife, who was missing from a nearby village for a few weeks because her mother-in-law and father-in-law are angry with her.
It shames me to admit it, but the worry that caught my heart was not the fear that Neela would not submit to the rites—but the fear that Neela would die immediately. Perhaps you will say that instead I should worry that she will get a better incarnation! If she evades the ritual in this life, she will surely miss out on the opportunities I have dreamed for her in her next life! (the good ones, I mean; not the opportunity to be wearing the flesh of a spider or a rat for even such a creature’s short lifespan.) The hope of a good incarnation had burdened my mind for many years; for all five of my children, I mean; not just Neela. So I had expected to be strong.
But when I saw her hiding inside the rolled-up rug, my heart just yielded; it gave way. In the moonlight, she looked out at me. Her beautiful eyes gleamed, dark and luminous and filled with tears. My tongue would not speak; it would not cry out to reveal her name, nor to expose her hiding place. No. Rather, I spoke in an ordinary voice to one young man who was beside me to help me. And I found myself saying such ordinary words as, “You take this end; I will take the other.” As I hobbled along, I contrived to let myself bear the greater portion of the weight. In this way, I concealed the contents from my companion. I succeeded in deceiving my own apprentice. Together, he and I gave one great heave, and the rug that contained Neela was atop all the others on the ox-cart that left in the dark of that night. I leaned over and breathed heavily, for I am aged and no longer accustomed to such strenuous work. But I was ever Neela’s slave.
That rug—and the others with it in the load—will be shipped far from here, to a land where they say nobody lives for more than one life before they come to a place of judgement. Or perhaps that is only what the people there think happens: a superstition. But until the rug and its priceless contents arrive, I will pray that they won’t find her: that my own people won’t, that is. Or any who would send her back to us for the ritual. Should the gods curse the rains, so be it. Yes, I will say even that. Perhaps you who read my story are looking down upon me for what I did. (I know how people speak of these things. They would say, “If you cannot give up your daughter—and she is not even really your daughter now that she has been wedded into a new family—then why will others give up their widows to the flames?” People ask, “Where will it end?” “What will it lead us to?”) I cannot answer these arguments, but please cease to stand as judge over me.
Well now you know I am not the man they say I am. That is true enough. But I say that what I have done is what you too would have done, if Neela were your own daughter. To know her is to love her. What is love for my child if I do not do what is best for my child’s future, though? I am the one must bear my burden of hope and fear—I fear that by not performing the rites as we have been taught to, I will put her next life in jeopardy. But I hope that somehow she can find good in this life if this life’s thread is not cut short. And it is in hope that my problem lies: of this I am convinced. For one selfish hope of mine keeps me from carrying out the rites with respect to my very own daughter. I am hindered by this selfish thing: the mere hope of one day seeing her face once more.
What has gone before:
A respected father stands alone by the gate of his village, watching the sun rise. His mind plays back over the events of the previous night: He learned that the husband of his beloved daughter, Neela—his son-in-law Gopal—who was gravely ill, is now dead.
As this father—now the father of a young widow named Neela—stands at the gate, his mind cycles through regrets… if his wife Deena were still alive—maybe she could have saved their son-in-law’s life by boiling a chicken and feeding him the broth, or a concoction steeped with herbs—or some sort of doctoring. But Deena is not alive: this man is alone.
He returns to face his day; he opens up his place of work, a rug shop, and contemplates the long, dull hours ahead. Then his young apprentice arrives, full of life as ever. However, catching on to the older man’s demeanor, (and knowing of the death of the son-in-law, for word travels quickly in the village) he attempts to reassure him. But the words out of his mouth are not “So sorry for your grief.” They are “Do not worry; we will surely find your daughter.”
Neela’s father notes the apprentice’s words, and thinks to himself, “All people in this village see me as a pious man—thorough in all matters of rites and ceremonies. And I am such a man. So he should think that I am. But he had forgotten that, more than that, I am a father. Or maybe they expect that a father would be even more anxious to see the rites accomplished.”
And then we get an explanation of which rites those are: now that Neela is a childless widow, she is to be put to death—burned on a pyre with all the possessions that were her husband’s during his life. (Indeed, Neela would have been seen as one more of those possessions.) And the old man thinks over this within his heart. “Everyone here respects me. They expect me to want the rite carried out.” as he knows “Of course, we all think it is the right thing to do.” But for this specific widow’s case, he has qualms and hesitations… wouldn’t you?