Rakshas

Trigger Warning: Abuse, Trauma

In Indian mythology, a demon creature known as a rakshas lives on a mountain slightly removed from a village. No one ventures there except once a year when the village leaders would head up the mountain to bring the monster a child sacrifice to appease its murderous appetite. After devouring the unfortunate young child, the rakshas would don the jewelry and bones of his victim around his fingers and neck, in a spooky, extravagant gesture of power.

When I was younger, I imagined my father was a rakshas. His physical appearance certainly evoked the association: tiny eyes buried under deep set arches protruding from his fleshy face, fat fingers spread out, studded with garish gold rings my mom bought him from India. He used these same stubby hands to grab toys from my hands when I was a child and to eat the last slice of cake at dessert or the first slice of cake at my sister’s and my birthday parties.

My fathers redeeming qualities included unintentional funny noises and mathematical brilliance. When sneezing at a restaurant, he’d scream “achooooooo!,” often seizing the attention of the entire venue, which always made my sister and me giggle. Moments later, he’d be working out multivariable calculus problems on napkins, oblivious to everyone’s eyes on him in the restaurant.