Fiction: "But more than that... a father." (Full story.)

"A father in any land imagines different possible futures for his child."

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A visitor would have seen a man standing alone by the gate as the sun reached to touch the soil of our village. It had begun its morning arc, and the blues of night had yielded way to the gold of a new dawn. A gold like turmeric spice, or an ochre robe. A gold like the sand kissed by the sun. And alone in that great golden quietness, alone in the stillness of a new day, stood just one man.

I was that man. I stood there seeking respite from my troubles under the sun. The news had come to me horribly the night before: My younger daughter's husband Gopal had taken ill. Soon we heard that he was feverish and shaking from chills. And then before midnight--before I could offer rites and prayers on his behalf--the messenger returned to our house, bowing and wailing--to tell me that my son-in-law lay dead.

In a moment of anguish, I told myself, "If only Deena were still alive! If she were alive, she could surely help!" Perhaps with her womanly arts of care and herbs, and a well-boiled chicken, my wife could have even saved Gopal. I don't know. What could cause Gopal to die so soon? His worst enemy could not find a fault or error to blame him. And I know he was very good to my daughter Neela for those two short years.

I sought refuge from all these thoughts in my time, watching for the light of dawn. We say "the day will follow the night," but I always want to see it happen. Not long ago, a young man mocked me for this. He caught me walking back as today, and called to me, "You checked that the sun came to work on time again?" I swatted at him. He dashed away, chuckling. I chased him down the road, pretending to scowl. But it was such a struggle to hold back my own laughter that I could hardly breathe. Finally, I gave myself up to it, and then we both stood there, laughing. Why could today not be exactly like that day, with the only cause for provocation or worry being one youth's idle jesting?

If that same youth saw me here right now, I would greet him and report that the sun was not a day-laborer to be checked up on, but a kingly warrior fighting a great battle with excellence and splendor. Once more the sun arose and chased away the cold enfolding blues and purple-grays of night.

But every day is not just like the other, even though they begin alike. Today, as on other days, I huffed and heaved, pulling myself along the dusty road to my shop. The keys clinked as I fumbled them out of my pocket to unlock for the morning's obligations. Stepping inside was a little like stepping back into the evening.

I shuffled along, winding between the tall rows of rolled-up rugs, and the luxuriant piles of carpets on display. It is a cool and musty building, but the eastward-facing window had just begun to admit the warming rays of encroaching sun. Those rays gilded the motes of dust hanging in the air, and the motes, for their part, responded by dancing in the illumination. There was my desk, with the pen and its ink ready for me. However, I could see nothing to look forward to but the cups of scalding tea I would drink four times before walking home. Those cups of tea would measure out portions of the long day; they would break it into pieces that I could endure.

Soon my apprentice arrived—as early as ever. Why should it surprise me that a morning's work should begin in such an ordinary way? He smiled, shining white teeth glowing out at me. Then he became very sober and serious, seeing my own serious face. And do you know what that young man did then? He touched my hand and said to me, "Don't worry; we'll get her. We'll find her. The rites will be accomplished."

If you have never been to my land, you may not know the funerary customs of our village. Many villages in our land have done as we do for long generations past. The traders' tales tell of villages across the great river which grow careless. And can we understand how this happens? Of course! The young people forget the old ways, and who can tell into what harm that will lead them? The traders also tell of places where a man's widow is kept alive and a chosen animal is sacrificed as a replacement. In my fathers' days, this was never so. But in a village like ours--where every offering is renewed day by day--the ways that were taught to us are always remembered. They are always practiced.

If you have never been to my land, you may not know the funerary customs of our village. Many villages in our land have done as we do for long generations past. The traders' tales tell of villages across the great river which grow careless. And can we understand how this happens? Of course! The young people forget the old ways, and who can tell into what harm that will lead them? The traders also tell of places where a man’s widow is kept alive and a chosen animal is sacrificed as a replacement. In my fathers’ days, this was never so. But in a village like ours - where every offering is renewed day by day - the ways that were taught to us are always remembered. They are always practiced.

When a man dies in our village, we gather together all the possessions of his house. (except his children, so that his death does not disrupt the posterity of his familial line) We carry them to a plot of land beside the river and lay them upon a pyre. (Though for a poor man’s funeral, the possessions themselves must suffice for the pyre.) Among these possessions, of course, his wife is included. If it is not a dry day, we splash oils over this entire collection of items. Then we kindle dry leaves, twigs, and fibers right under the pyre. The whole lot of it goes up in smoke and is engulfed in flames. Later, the bones and remains of the husband and wife will be buried. Their family - the husband’s family - handles each bone as gently as if it were the wing of a moth - tender and prone to fraying. And the ashes from the other possessions - many or few - are swept clear, as if they had never been.

Last year, Nayana, the wife of Arul, submitted herself to these rites. The day she departed was exceptionally memorable because of the brave and placid face she bore through the whole experience - until the end. For months we were talking about her; every time we had a good rain, someone would attribute it to her. And who could disagree with that? Such a brave woman will be praised. None would deny that her courage and forbearance brought the strong growing season that followed. One family bore the cost, and many other families flourished because of it. So, you see, it is both the men and the women who make our land thrive.

Now you can understand that my apprentice only wanted to reassure me. He was trying to encourage me that I need not worry. “Neela will be found,” he insisted, “and brought to the place where the fire is lit. The rites will be accomplished.” He looked up at me, eager, smiling, eyes crinkling at the edges. I clasped his hand between both of mine and closed my eyes. What I spoke next must be given very careful words. 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.

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.