I lived without the societal pressures that would have existed for me in India. But when my father died, my sense of duty was profound.
First I saw his head, his white hair combed up. He was peaceful and still, in his coffin at the funeral home. It was the first time I had seen him in almost a year, since we had spent a joyful Christmas together in 2019.
We were all very careful during this pandemic. I thought I could save my parents by not visiting. But in the end, it was not Covid that took him. It was sudden cardiac arrest.
The priest arrived at the covered patio of the funeral home in Charlotte, N.C., a Hindu priest who may have spoken English but never did with me. He ordered us to buy bags of food and sweets, ghee, sandalwood powder. At first, I couldn’t bear to look at my father’s body: handsome face, cool to touch, unbearably still. A peaceful expression, no tension in his face, no sign of any fear. Unblemished, except for a purple bruise on his forehead; after losing consciousness, he fell with a “terrible thump,” as my mother said, and hit his head on the way down. Dressed in his favorite red blazer, socked feet falling to the sides, because in our grief we forgot to bring shoes.
The priest — gesturing to communicate across our language barrier — insisted that I look at my father’s body, touch him and care for him. He walked me down the path, instructing me to put apples in his hands, sweets beside him, and surround his body with rice and barley. To pour a few spoonfuls of water in his mouth, and lay a tiny mint leaf on his lips.
Would that help keep him cool in the fire of cremation? Or was it just for his soul’s final journey, to wet his throat as his soul walked to unknown places? I performed the duties not quite knowing what meaning I was bringing to him, or to myself.
In my final task of the ceremony, I was instructed to light a candle and place it on his chest. If we had been in India, I imagine we might have had a more visible pyre, the ability to see his body reduced. Here, the funeral director pushed him into an oven, closed a door and asked me to push a button. I immediately heard a powerful whoosh, maybe many whooshes, and imagined flames engulfing him on all sides. “He always was so afraid of fire,” said my mother, as we held each other.
As an immigrant, my father came to this country seeking a new kind of life. The typical narrative of an immigrant is that they live a life of self-sacrifice, that they come to build a better life for their children, and that their every action is steeped in duty. Stories of immigrants working 12-hour days to send their kids to a good school, or living in tiny apartments as they send money back to their struggling parents — those are the popular immigrant tales. They live for another generation.
But my father didn’t exactly fit the stereotype. He was a doctor’s son who had every privilege in India, and none of his siblings chose to emigrate. He first landed in Britain for grad school and then lived a bachelor life in Scotland. His photos don’t reflect a life of sacrifice. There he is, drinking whiskey in a pub, wearing a kilt and dancing on a table. He told stories of going to see Elton John in concert, of winning tennis tournaments, of traveling through Europe. Was his journey really about duty? Or was it about freedom? I never asked him, but it seemed to me that immigrating was actually an act of self-definition.
Eventually a business trip to the United States in 1982 brought him a job offer and his H1 visa. Within the next decade, we would all become U.S. citizens.
While my parents missed their parents and siblings, they were also free — from expectations, from society’s eyes.
Free to wear whatever they wanted, to worship however they wanted, to raise their kids however they wanted. Like the original pilgrims, they were drawn to America by that promise, of freedom.
In our small town in upstate New York, there was no temple, so our religious education happened at home, or in others’ homes. My parents read the texts and picked the parts that they liked. They found friends who shared their language and gathered with them often, but they also sent me to a Christian camp, encouraged my friendships with a wide variety of people.
And I was free. I made so many decisions without any regard to the societal pressures that would have existed for me in India. Instead of marrying within my caste or even culture, I fell in love with a kind Polish engineer who understood feeling like an outsider, as I do — a marriage my parents supported. Instead of pursuing the sciences, I found my way as a reporter.
As a member of the second generation, I wasn’t raised with the traditional standards of responsibility to my parents.
But now that my father was gone, my sense of duty toward him was profound.
At least for the week after my father’s death, my path was clear, and that was a comfort. I performed rites and rituals for his body and soul, accepting the reality of his final stage of life. I sat with another Hindu priest a few days after the cremation and performed a puja — a ceremonial ritual — for his soul. We called out to all his ancestors to take him with them, and we asked for forgiveness for him and for us, so that his soul could be at peace, with all the tensions and worries of his life put to rest. I could feel their presence in my family room. The candle in front of my father’s picture burned for hours.
If I had been in India, I likely would have been pushed to the side, as those rites are traditionally performed by a son or a nephew — a male descendant. But here, I did them without facing a fight from anyone.
Some Americans know the word “dharma” from the show “Dharma and Greg.” It is a Sanskrit word not exactly translatable into English, though it does encompass the word duty — to your parents, your children, your society. It also encompasses the idea of following certain rules while living through each stage of life — as a student, a parent, or in your work — and the idea that if you do, you will be rewarded in your next life, or as you enter “the beyond.”
My father may have come to the Western world to enjoy the freedom, but he certainly lived his dharma. He cared for his children and grandchildren with constant joy, anticipating our needs and wants and providing them, while cutting grapefruits for me every morning during my grapefruit-obsessed teenage years or laying down a blanket for his baby grandson, always with a delighted and gentle smile. He worked for the same tool company for 50 years, up until his death, performing his responsibilities with constancy and integrity, saving money to ensure that his widow could live without stress.
As I performed all his last rites, I thought about his dharma-laden life, and hoped that he was receiving the rewards.
A few days later, I carried my father’s ashes to a nearby river.
After a mile or so, I saw a tree that curved, bending over the river. I left the path and walked down the slope, stepping on the strong tree roots to keep from sliding into the water, clutching the box of ashes, desperate not to drop them. I got to the tree, climbed up a few feet until I could see that the water was rushing directly below me. I tore open the box and the plastic bag that held the ashes and poured them in, watching my father wash away toward the ocean. Now, he was truly free.
Shilpi Malinowski is a writer living in Washington, D.C. Her first book, a chronicle of gentrification in D.C., is coming out in late 2021.
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