Truth be told, he was not an emotional man. He could count on his fingers the number of times he had ever gotten emotional. The world saw his vulnerability once when he saw his mother shouldered by four people, then when he shouldered his sister’s palanquin and, finally, today when he shouldered his daughter’s coffin. He was what you could call a man with testosterone coursing through his veins, who feared nothing and challenged everything. Yet, as he saw his daughter rising up with the flames, he began to wonder why her, why now, why did he fail to notice the signs?

It had only been six autumns since Swastika embraced her husband’s identity, forgoing her father’s. As Hari Subedi brooded over the flaming pier, he questioned himself: were there no signs or had I just not cared enough to peep through her eyes and into her soul? Was what he thought to be the love and affection of his son-in-law in the form of expensive and branded make-up just a ploy to cover up the bruises—her Kashmiri shawls and sweaters covering up the night’s conquest.

Amid all these flashbacks, he recalled many incidents, but none of them were what he so dearly sought. Frustrated, he rummaged through the once cherished room of hers while Pun Maya with eyes full of grief sat at the door, helplessly staring at her husband. Her room looked like a battle field once he was done with it. Papers, notebooks, dress, strewn all over the floor. Just as he was about to leave, his eyes fell on some pages adorned with her handwriting.

“Maybe this is what my mom meant when she said faith isn’t in one’s hand, it is written by a higher power presiding over the throne above the sky, and who are we to question his judgment. For whatever he passes must be just and must lead to a grand design of his, of which we play a miniscule part. Our faith is rigid, especially for women. It is a testament written in blood on a tablet of flesh. I still remember our teacher preaching ‘see no evil, hear no evil, do no evil’. Though at the time I couldn’t fathom its meaning, it dawned upon me in my teenage years when I saw my father taking out his worldly frustrations on his wife, doing to her what he couldn’t to those more powerful than him. Every time I saw her bruises the next day, her bulging eyes, she simply used to brush it aside to be a stumble on the staircase and an emotional episode of Hindi soap operas.”

He sat under the door clutching his forehead, staring into her eyes. For two decades, Pun Maya had seen many emotions there were to be seen in her husband’s eyes. But never before had she ever witnessed remorse or guilt.

“After a while, she got better in covering the scars and me in tuning it out. Nobody bothered to question the elephant in the room. What once was an ordeal that would take place behind closed door now moved into the living room as well. And with time it spilled over all our lives. I told myself that he wasn’t a bad man but how am I supposed to overlook the demon that alcohol brings out in him every now and then. ‘A son seeks his mother in his wife and the daughter her father.’ It seems I have verified it. Ravi isn’t a drunk. We had a happy first year of marriage, after which Ratika was born. It was evident he wanted a son, nevertheless he seemed pleased enough. A couple of years later Swaravi came into my world. But the children who were the light of my life seemed to cast shadows in their father’s. To state the fact, he is well educated and knows very well that I have no control over the gender of his children. And still he blames me, sees me at fault. Why!

Drinks weren’t for him and neither was he made for drinks. But ever since Swaravi, he has found a new buddy to share his woes with and in me he finds a punching bag. Now, I too find Hindi soap-operas heart-breaking and lose footing in the bathroom. I know I shouldn’t give in to his whims but am chained to the iron rules and norms as set forth by the society. The struggle within me is too great and I wish I could share them. But, neither do I want to add to my mother’s sufferings nor do I want my friends to ridicule or sympathise and be a subject of gossip. I too have been one of the sympathisers. I once tried to consult with my father to know what made him tick, pacified him, appeased him but was too busy watching the news and later I thought the better of it. Maybe my mother is right, it is our faith, sins of our past, our path to redemption. I know I am supposed to weather this silently as my mom did for us.It’s not that I don’t love the two good things in my life. I do more than my life. But I’m not as strong and resilient as my mother; I just can’t take it anymore. My only worry is for my daughters and the ominous faith that awaits them. Maybe they haven’t committed any sins and reshape their faith! For their mother couldn’t.”

This was only the fourth time Hari had cried. Not for himself but for his daughter’s faith and his deeds which shaped them and her future. His daughter relinquished his identity and embraced her husband’s, never for a moment searching, building her own. Yet the unsought was what doomed her. Had he known what his sins against his wife would do to his daughter, he’d have changed his ways. But this was a little too late. The only redemption he saw lied in the laps of his wife and he too lay beneath the shade of the forgiving tree, embracing his two little granddaughters and vowing to go on a voyage in search of their identity with them when the time came. Seeing his state his wife caressed his hair and asked him, “What is it in the paper? Is it something from her?” To which the only reply he could muster was a sob and a nod.