The final ritual

An essay I wrote a long time ago...

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It is perhaps the happiest day of my life. Celebrations all over, festive music playing in the house and the final rituals are also almost over. I am the bride's father, and today is my daughter's marriage.

I stand in a corner, and I look at her, and I see the baby that she was. That's how parents will always see their children. It's a human tendency to see things the way you'd like to remember them, and I am no exception.

Twenty five years ago, she began her journey of life... in my arms. Her mother gave me the most precious gift that any wife could ever give to her husband: the joy of being a father. The irony of the matter is that she didn't stay long enough to take part in my celebrations, and passed away with a smile on her lips, as if to say, "Remember me and smile...” I named the little angel Tamanna, for she had been our wish, our long unfulfilled desire.

Today, as I look at her taking the sacred circles of the holy Agni, I cannot help but recapitulate the days spent with my daughter. The feeling of nostalgia also brings a sharp pain to my chest, reminding me of the long days ahead that I have to spend without her.

I remember the time when she spoke for the first time. And I was amazed, ecstatic and saddened at the same time when she softly said "Pa..." in her toothless voice. Saddened for I missed her mother, and ecstatic that my daughter was finally beginning to recognize me. Little did I know that this little girl would go on to become a good orator, winning prizes in every contest she participated in, be it elocution or debate. I was so proud of her. And now, looking at her, I still am.

How fast children grow up. I remember putting her to bed when she used to be ill, and scolding her if she had missed taking her medicine. And now my daughter, Dr. Tamanna, does the same to me.

It came as a pleasant surprise when she told me about Mihir, the man in her life. Or should I say, the "other" man in her life. I was happy for her, but with an incident so acute was I reminded of the fact that a daughter has to leave someday or the other; that no matter how modern we proclaim ourselves to be, a daughter's house is where her husband is. And this holds true for any civilization, race or country. And I had given my daughter to the "other" man...

Now, in sometime, the final rituals of her marriage will be over. I have been dreading what comes next ever since the day her marriage was fixed. I've never cried in front of her, and I'm determined not to do it today. I catch her taking a few, nervous glances at me. She's my daughter, and I can tell that she's sad to be leaving her father behind. She's excited and nervous about the future that lies ahead of her, and I am equally uncertain about the days that I will spend remembering her.

Tears fill my eyes, a smile parts my lips, and I continue throwing flowers on the couple, wishing them happiness forever. The final ritual is about to end...

[Rahul Pradhan, 18th October 2005]