Lessons from the Tree-Climber

The newspaper crinkled in Rahul Patel's hands as he turned the page, the scent of ink and chai curling around him like an old friend. Sunday morning. His chair. The window cracked just enough to let the breeze in, fluttering the curtain behind him. He wore his soft cotton kurta, slippers on, his steaming mug of chai on the table beside him. The boys were out with friends. Peace.

It was the kind of morning he liked best — quiet and filled with print. He scanned a long editorial about housing prices, letting the words wash over him in the same rhythm he'd once used to read the Bhagavad Gita back in Ahmedabad, lying belly-down on the roof, just before sunset.

Then the door opened. Loud. Fast. A flash of movement and then —

SLAM.

The wall trembled slightly as Indira's bedroom door closed like a gunshot. Rahul blinked and looked up.

She had swept past him so quickly he'd barely gotten a look, but what he'd seen…

A white skirt — short — and a purple top, quite revealing. Surprisingly revealing. Her shoulders bare. Her spine straight. Her chin high, proud, angry. Indira hadn't looked at him, hadn't said a word. But there was something in her posture, something fierce.

Confidence?

That was the word, but it was incongruent with what he knew of Indira. In no way did Rahul want to think less of his daughter, but she was not the most confident person. Especially when it came to her body. Hard working? Yes. Dedicated? Without question. But confident?

She had a little bit to learn.

Or perhaps she was learning it now.

He hadn't even known she owned clothes like that. Not his Indira — the straight-A student, quiet and bookish, more like her mother than she liked to admit. The girl who still drinks tea the way Neha made it, even if she didn't always finish the cup.

He reached slowly for his chai, still warm.

A minute passed.

Then the door opened again — quieter this time. The click of the lock. The whisper of footsteps. And then Neha's face appeared, drawn and tight.

She closed the door behind her with that familiar gentle deliberation, like she was afraid it might break if she shut it too quickly. She didn't look at him right away. Just stood there for a second, as though gathering herself.

Then her eyes found him. "Rahul," she said softly.

He folded the paper and set it aside, already knowing what she was going to say, even if he didn't know the details. He patted the armrest beside him.

She came over and sat, not on the arm, but beside him on the edge of the couch. Her sari brushed his leg, and her fingers fiddled with the pleats.

"I went to get her," Neha said, her voice rough.

Rahul nodded. "I guessed."

"She was at a white girl's house, dressed like..." she stopped herself. "The girl was sick, and Indira was visiting her. A friend I've never heard of. The mother was there, too. Fancy clothes. Big house. You should have seen how she looked at me. Like I was somehow less than her. I hate how these white women are, how they treat us."

Her mouth twisted. "Apparently she's been… advising Indira. On fashion. On her body." Neha's voice sharpened slightly. "I think she's the one buying her these clothes, Rahul. Someone else is dressing my daughter."

He said nothing, just reached over and gently laid his hand over hers.

"She looked…" Neha's voice caught. "She looked so proud of herself, but so guilty at the same time. Like she didn't want me to see, but that she wanted me to see at the same time. Like she was deciding whether or not she cared what I thought."

Rahul pictured Indira in that outfit. Not what she was wearing — not exactly — but how she had held her head as she ran to her room. That upright spine. That fire. It stirred something in him, something half-remembered.

"I told her I didn't want her going back there again," Neha said, her voice breaking. "I said some things. She said worse. I don't even know who that was in the car with me."

He waited a moment. Let the words settle. Then asked, "Was she happy?"

Neha looked up, confused.

"When you saw her. Was she happy?"

"I don't know. Maybe. What does that have to do with anything?"

Rahul smiled faintly and looked out the window for a moment, then back to his wife. "Do you remember when I first met you?"

Neha blinked, caught off guard. "Of course I do."

"You were wearing yellow. That dress you said your cousin had mailed from Delhi. Everyone else was staring. But you were already halfway up the banyan tree before I could even say hello."

Neha gave a small laugh through her nose. "I had something to prove."

"You were eighteen."

She stilled.

"I was almost thirty," he said. "Working that miserable insurance job, reading books under a fan that clicked like it was counting down my life. Then you came. You showed me the world through your eyes."

Neha looked at him.

"Did you know that I would never have left home without you?" he said. "Would never have had the courage. But you — you saw something better. And you were right."

She was quiet for a long moment. Her fingers stopped twisting the edge of her sari.

"I'm not saying she's right about everything," Rahul said gently. "She's still learning. But so are we. Maybe it's time we look through her eyes, just a little."

Neha's eyes glistened, but she didn't cry. Instead, she leaned against his shoulder, letting her head rest there.

"I don't want to lose her," she whispered.

"You won't," he said. "Indira is a good girl. We raised her right. But she is an adult, and will be starting off on her own journey soon. And if we want her to come home… we may have to walk a little of the way toward where she's going."

They sat in silence, the sounds of the city humming faintly through the window. Somewhere behind the closed door, their daughter — their little girl, their fierce young woman — was discovering who she was.