"...But More Than That, a Father."

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Linna Heartbooger
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"...But More Than That, a Father."

Post by Linna Heartbooger »

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...



I wrote this story back in Spring/Summer 2020. Showed it to deer.. she said to post it here. :biggrin: I said "first I have to publish it in this local anthology! They were the people who catalyzed me finishing a thing... (first time, btw!) ...and would have rights to the first publishing.

Then it was published in early 2021, but... I sort-of forgot to put it here! (I have also been hesitant to show it to people in general.)

Yes, of course this is only the begginning: I'll post the rest over the next few weeks... or maybe days!
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samrw3
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Post by samrw3 »

Very interesting story so far ...hope to see some more of the story soon :)
Not every person is going to understand you and that's okay. They have a right to their opinion and you have every right to ignore it.
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Linna Heartbooger
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Post by Linna Heartbooger »

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 wife2 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.

(To be continued...)

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Thank you so much, Sam! Sorry to be so slow to follow it! (but posted the next installment at long last!) :D

[EDIT: Fixed some paragraph spacing!]
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