My father wasn’t too pleased with my birth. Mother tells me the first thing he said was, “Oh God, not another girl.” That’s not to say he didn’t love me; no, my father loves me very much, but after having raised four girls and being the only man amongst five women, the burden resting on his shoulders only delved deeper into his skin. A daughter was typically synonymous with the word itself, burden. After all, a daughter couldn’t earn for the family like a son could. She couldn’t toil in the fields under the scorching sun that burns a man’s body like it is a mere piece of paper. She was instead a sister, a wife, and someday, a mother. She was to marry and bring dowry to her husband’s home. If my father were pleased with my birth, it would have been more of a shock.

We lived in our very own little world in Saboli, a small, conservative town right outside the Indian metropolis of New Delhi. Buses and cars would rarely pass by, and perhaps only one or two families actually owned color televisions. We didn’t have much, but with what we had, we were happy. At least, I was happy.

Father did his best to make ends meet. His countless years of commitment and hard work as a senior constable at the Haryana State Police Department were finally being rewarded with a hefty promotion. This prestigious promotion meant my father was even closer to accomplishing his biggest dream in life, becoming the Haryana State Commissioner. It was the equivalent of being the President of a small country. Head policeman meant power, position, respect, and most importantly for our family, money. I would run around our locality, wild as the wind, bragging to the kids about my father. I admired him for many things: his passion towards his uniform, his desire to witness change, but most of all, for his dreams. He had gone from nothing to something. And I was as proud as can be.

Everything was perfect, until the accident. A bus. My father. An agonizing day for all of Saboli; Death himself obliged to do the honors by riding his carriage down to earth. Only after days of pleading, crying, and praying did Death loosen his reins and release our father back to us. He was now crippled, half his body paralyzed, and deaf in one ear; but he was alive. Some thought we didn’t have enough, that we should want more from life, but we had our father, our God. And that was plenty.

Today was a new day, however; today hopefully another burden would be lifted off my father’s bony shoulders: an alliance had come for my older sister, Meha. I opened the door for the boy and the boy’s family and modestly stood in the corner of the sitting room until I heard the declining sound of footsteps. The boy had left, and the piercing close of our front door reassured my conclusion. Almost immediately, I heard my father’s rugged voice groaning in the kitchen.

“Oh God, as if we didn’t have enough to complain about. Tell me, Asha, what is our daughter lacking in that they don’t want her? Huh?” His rhetorical questioning only caused my mother to sigh and nod her head from side to side as my father painfully exhaled.

“What happened,” I interrupted, though I knew better, “did they not like Meha?” No one bothered to reply. “Well…if anything, it’s their loss. Don’t lose hope, we’ll find someone even better for her. Those people were weird anyway.”

“How many times have I told you to not interfere when elders are speaking?” Though my father spat these words coldly, I understood the stress he was dealing with and regretfully lowered my eyes. Another girl at home meant a heavier burden.

I turned to leave when my father suddenly retorted, “They want you. The boy thought you had a pretty face.” I patiently waited for him to tell me he was joking. “Well, what can we do, right? I guess God planned for us to have a wedding this year…it just wasn’t for Meha. It was for you.”

Something disgusting brewed in the pit of my stomach, boiling with a sort of queasy rage. I was a child, 18-years-old. My knuckles grew white as I clenched my fists, and my veins bulged uncontrollably as nausea permeated my whole body. I weakly turned to face my father. “If they don’t want Meha, fine. But that doesn’t mean it’s some exchange deal. I’m not some sack of flour someone just picks off a shelf and purchases. I’m not up for sale.”

My father looked confused, as if my face had been covered in some foreign script. “Aarya, we wouldn’t ever sell you to someone. We just want you to be happy. The boy makes good money, lives in the city, and the biggest thing is…he likes you. He’ll be able to give you those things that your mother and I could never give you. He’ll give you that happiness that you never got in this suffocating village…and besides, that’s what we’ve brought you up for. To have a family of your own.”

He wasn’t yelling at me. Actually, I could barely hear him in between his still whispers, but suddenly, his words hurt. Did he think that I had been living unhappily all my life? Were these two people suddenly not my family?

Warm tears streamed from the corners of my eyes. I felt like a 3-year-old child again, uncontrollably sobbing and refusing to revert my attention to any other argument except mine. I was a complete mess…no, a disaster.

“I know why you’re doing this. It’s because I’m just another useless responsibility for you to handle…but father, I’m sorry. I will not marry…actually I had something else in mind and came here to ask the two of you.”

Now an expression of grave concern clouded my father’s round face.

“Father…I…um, I” the words hid in my mouth as I stuttered to recover my confidence, “I want to work in the police force…like you did.” Before I knew it, the sound of thunder rumbled, and my right cheek had turned cherry red.

“Do you have any what you’re saying?” I had never heard my father’s voice echo so loudly. The lines on his forehead compressed and the wrinkles on his face became even more clearly sculpted. My poor father looked a hundred years older. “You know nothing. And how could you? You’ve been living inside these four walls your whole life. Go. Go outside and see how terrible the world is. You want to join the police force, huh? I served my country for 40 years…and what did I get in return? Nothing. Half my body is dead; I’m deaf in one ear, and let alone money; I don’t even get respect from the people I protected.” He roared with a fury that none of us had ever encountered before. “Leave before I lose my temper again. We’ve set the engagement for next Friday; it’s an auspicious date. Forget this useless dream. Just forget it even occurred to you. Useless burden.”

And just like that, it was over. I was used to being called a burden for many years now, but for the first time, I didn’t like it. It didn’t sound like the casual utterance of familiar term of kinship it had been before. It made my chest itch, itch with a burning guilt. All these years I had been a burden on my poor family. I sat inside the safety of my home and let the world continue with its farce. That was wrong, but then I couldn’t do anything; now I could. Maybe I was still making a mistake, but whatever happens, I promised myself: I would only return to Saboli after making a name for myself. Any name. I would ease my father’s burden.

The crimson has steadily disappeared from my cheek throughout the years. I close my eyes momentarily and lean back into my chair when I hear a knock on the door. A mailman uncomfortably saunters into the office, his eyes closely surveying the meticulously inscribed letters on my golden nameplate.

“Commissioner…Aarya Singh?”

“Yes?”

“I have a letter for you, ma’am. If you could sign here…” He hands me a narrow envelope that looks as if it had been sitting on a dusty shelf for most of its life.

My fingers trace the edges of the envelope. A weird smell lingers in the air, but I just cannot properly place it. What is that familiar scent?

I open the envelope and reveal a decaying letter. My eyes immediately dart to the signature at the bottom. Asha.

“Dear Aarya,

It is your mother here. I don’t know when this letter will reach you. As you know, we don’t really send a lot of letters in Saboli, but I hope you are doing well. All of us here are fine. A couple days after you left, we found a very good alliance for Meha. She moved to America after marriage and has settled there now.

When your father first found your letter, he didn’t eat or talk for days. Then he cried for several days after. He blamed himself. We came to believe you were dead since you never contacted us or came back, but then a couple years ago, Aunt Leela showed us the newspaper article of you becoming the Commissioner of Police, and we just died of happiness. Your father was especially very proud. He spent 100 rupees on buying sweets for the whole neighborhood to celebrate. Actually that day, your father had decided he would travel down to Delhi and surprise you. He caught the first bus he found and was on his way when, oh, how do I tell you this, the bus got into a terrible accident. Aarya, your father was very proud of you. After you left, that was all he ever wanted to do, to tell you how proud he was, just know that. Anyway, that’s all I had to tell you. Take care of yourself, my child.”

Asha

And in that moment, I didn’t know what killed me more: the fact that my beloved father was no more, or the fact that my father’s dreams had died. Twice.