I owe my life to her. She was two and I was about three or four then. We lived in a city that spoke in a mysterious tongue, never spoken at our home. There were few, if any, children of our age in that Haveli shared by probably fifteen other families. None spoke our language. We had each other, though. My sister, L, was devoted to me, as I was to her. In that summer, both L and I were stricken with chicken pox, followed by pneumonia. L died, and I survived. For years to follow, I would ask of her, and no one would tell me the truth. Instead, I was assuaged with various fantastic stories about what happened to her.
I did not have another sister, and I never stopped looking for L, even after I was an adult. My relationships with some of the women to whom I was attracted to, had been confused and ambiguous. Did something in their features or behavior illuminate some neural pathways that I was not conscious of? I am a fierce advocate for women's rights, passionately pro-choice, and would very much like to challenge Lawrence Summers for a duel [for a scintillating debate on the controversial subject of gender differences in intelligence or lack thereof, sparked by Summers' public comments on the same subject, visit Edge]! Were my ideals and behavior influenced by the traumatic loss of my sister? Could it be possible that what I thought of as my reasoned stance on women's issues had a strong emotional component? I am digressing, though. These are interesting questions that I would very much like to pursue, perhaps in another post. What I intended to do in this post is to talk about my father's role in all this.
It was only a few years ago, on one of those rare occasions when my mother spoke of her past, I came to know of the shocking circumstances surrounding my sister's death. I was told my father could not afford the medical expenses for both of us. He had commitments to get his four sisters married, so he had to forgo treatment for one of us. He chose my sister as the sacrifice in the altar of his family. My mother begged him against this but without any avail. She never forgave him. My father acknowledged his choice to me, and I could never forgive him either.
|I saw the film Sophie's Choice a few years back. It was one of the most gut wrenching films that I have ever seen. To me, even Schindler's List pales in comparison to this film. The film, which is an adaptation of William Styron's novel of the same title, won an Oscar for Meryl Streep, who gave a memorable performance as Sophie. Ordered by a Nazi official in Auschwitz, Sophie had to choose between her daughter Eva and her son Jan, one of them to be saved or risk extermination of both. With her pleas not to make her choose falling on deaf ears, she chooses to let Eva be taken away to the gas chamber. Sophie's choice had a real life parallel during the recent Beslan Massacre in Russia. Zalina Dzandarova, one of the parents taken hostage, was asked by Chechen terrorists to choose between her six year old daughter Alana and her two year old son Alan, to take with her when she was released. Zalina tried to pass Alan to her sister-in-law, who was also a hostage, but couldn't succeed. She was forced to leave Alana behind. Fortunately, in this case, Alana also survived.|
Although my father's choice matched Sophie's Choice in its horror, it seems to lack the extenuating circumstances of the latter. Sophie had to chose between sacrificing one of her children or risk loosing them both. That's a terrible dilemma that no one should face. My father's dilemma was either to risk his daughter's life or his sister's marriage. I don't think he considered foregoing medical treatment for me as an option. It's not surprising coming from a man of his time. Like many of his cohorts, he was a misogynist. Unlike Sophie, I didn't see him burdened by any guilt or suffering. He showed no remorse until his end.
I don't think my father was quite guilty of female infanticide, which is prevalent even today in some parts of the world. He may have been held responsible for child abuse and negligence, though. May be even involuntary child slaughter, if he had been subject to a different legal system. It was definitely not a premeditated murder as female infanticide is.
Hold it right there, what am I doing? Who am I to judge him? Does anyone have the right to question Sophie's choice to let Eva die to save Jan? I am certain that I don't. I don't recognize absolute morals, so why am I making an exception now? It was my father's choice and his alone. Well, there is my mother, who was very much an interested party, and her position on this is quite tenable, but I don't have the right to question the grounds of his choice.
If I were faced with with either my daughter's life or my sister's marriage, there's no doubt in my mind what I would have chosen. Then again, my father was not me. The events in his life, the books that he was influenced by, the people he had met, and the choices that he had made until then, were his own. He was what he had become. We make choices and the choices make us. Doesn't that sound like the doctrine of Karma? My father probably didn't even agonize over the choice for long. His duty to his sisters as the head of his family (my grandfather had died by then) came first. The choice was quite clear. Perhaps it was not even a choice. Perhaps, as illustrated by Newcomb's Paradox, free will is a myth. The only reality is the plasticity of the brain!