urn’sdustycontentsovermyrightshoulderintotheriver,
followedbytheurnitselfanditscap.“Don’tlook,”he
admonished me in English, and I didn’t.
It’shardtoraiseagoodHinduinsmall-townOhio,no
matterhowmuchmyparentstried.Iwasnotmuchofa
believerintheideaofgodscontrollingpeople’sfatesand
didnotsupposethatanythingweweredoingwasgoing
tooffermyfatheraspecialplaceinanyafterworld.The
Ganges mighthave beensacredto one of theworld’s
largest religions, but to me, the doctor, it was more
notableasoneoftheworld’smostpollutedrivers,thanks
inparttoalltheincompletelycrematedbodiesthathad
beenthrownintoit.KnowingthatI’dhavetotakethose
littlesips ofriverwater,Ihad lookedup thebacterial
counts on a Web site beforehand and premedicated
myself with the appropriate antibiotics. (Even so, I
developed a Giardia infection, having forgotten to
consider the possibility of parasites.)
Yet I was still intensely moved and grateful to have
gottentodomypart.Forone,myfatherhadwantedit,
andmymotherandsisterdid,too.Moreover,althoughI
didn’tfeelmydadwasanywhereinthatcupandahalfof
gray, powdery ash, I felt that we’d connected him to
somethingfarbiggerthanourselves,inthisplacewhere
people had been performing these rituals for so long.
WhenIwasachild,thelessonsmyfathertaughtmehad
beenaboutperseverance:nevertoacceptlimitationsthat
stoodinmyway.Asanadultwatchinghiminhisfinal
years,Ialsosawhowtocometotermswithlimitsthat
couldn’t simply be wished away. When to shift from
pushingagainstlimitstomakingthebestofthemisnot