Tradition

When the knives bond...

"I couldn't help it, Dad. He triggered me.", said the thirteen year old boy, Jon.

"And how you control your reactions determines type of man you'll become."

"But-....it isn't fair."

"Such is life. Welcome to the real world, kid."

Jon felt his trigger growing yet again, and he tried using his fist-clenching method to overcome it. His mother would be upset if he had another outburst. In fact, the whole point of this camping night-out, she'd said, was to help him calm down, and reconcile with his father.

"Pass me that can of sand, will ya'?" Andrew said to his son, a bead of sweat rolling down the side of his head. He'd been at it for three hours now...finding the perfect place, the perfect materials. He wanted the momental monument to be perfect; just like his. He grabbed the can from Jon, tipped off its lid, and started pouring the grains into the foundation pit.

"Watch, Jon. The light sand goes in first, setting the first layer of the foundation. Then comes the crate, and then the darker, heavier mud. The clayey texture makes it more stable, more safe.

More hidden."

"This is so lame. Why can't we just use our campfire?"

"What's the fun in that? The whole reason for the ancestral method is to lighten the mood, systematically."

"It's so boring."

"Well, you know why we're here." That remark came out wrong, but did damage all the same. Jon felt unhinged once more, and yelled at his father. "You never helped me when I needed you! How can you blame this upon me?"

Andrew scoffed, and plainly replied, "That's how one learns. Now be a man and o-"

"That's what you've always said! How do you expect me to be perfect, when you never even help me?"

"Calm down, son-"

"NO! I won't! You-"

The hours of hard shoveling, and the hours that Andrew spent finding the right location all gave in, and he unleashed his own frustration. "If I spoon-feed you all the time, how will you ever learn? Think rationally young man."

"But dad, you can't just throw me into a river and expect me to swim!"

"That is exactly how one learns! It's how I did-"

"Well, I'm not you!"

"THEN MAYBE THAT'S THE PROBLEM!" Andrew couldn't help it, he too had control issues. He didn't mean to say it like that, so plainly. So blatantly. 

He'd expected Jon to have taken this as a trigger, but to his surprise, Jon just dropped on his knees, a duo of tears trickling from his eyes.

"Hey.." Andrew placed the can aside, took a deep breath and kneeled beside his son.

"I didn't mean to say that, son.", said Andrew, the same pale look on his face. His words were meant to reassure, but his eyes were as dim as they'd ever been.

"But it's true...I'm the only one in our whole family history, who managed to have an outburst this early. It's because I'm bad. I'm very bad." He began sobbing, and Andrew tried to console him.

"Son, I know I've been hard on you, but only so that you could become hard yourself. You can't be this weak, young man."

"I tried, dad, I really did."

"I know you did, son. But these things happen, and one needs to be able to hold his composure, and think practically. I'm not angry or disappointed in you."

Jon sniffled, "You're not?"

Andrew shook his head, and smiled. He told Jon that he too had his outburst early in his life, albeit not as early as Jon himself. Jon managed to gather himself, and agreed to help with the tradition's proceedings.

"Alright...now that we've finished the bedding, I need you to bring the crate from our car trunk, and try not to spill any of the liquids on your way here."

Jon did as he was told, and managed to keep the crate intact, not spilling a single drop of the reddish paint. The crate weighed almost as much as him, so he had difficulty in setting it beside the pit. It even reeked of a horrible stench. But Andrew offered to help, for once, and together, they managed to bury it. "Thanks, dad.", Jon said.

"Don't thank me yet, young man. We're not done here. Grab that pail of oil...remember, the oil helps in getting rid of the smell. Only then do we pour the dark mud."

Jon nodded, and poured the grease over the crate. Soon enough, the odour began to vanish.

"Dad, why does the smell arise in the first place?"

"It's because of the rotting, son. Sometimes the tiny bugs get to the contents."

Finally, Andrew helped Jon life the dark mud can, and they began emptying it over the pit, filling it in. Then they spread some natural dirt over the pit, and even arranged some leaves. And then, at last, Andrew presented his son the three idols, and told him to pick the one he liked the most. Jon picked one, and as per his father's instructions, he set it beside the pit. They closed their eyes and faced the sky, muttering a few chants, and proceeded to open their eyes.

The idol vanished.

Andrew got up to his feet, helped his son do the same, and got rid of the dirt on his palms. 

And then, wiping the last traces of blood from Jon's fingers, Andrew said,

"Very well, son, that marks your first kill!"

And Andrew's eyes beamed brighter than ever before.

-Armaan Kothare

***

Hello readers! I apologise for the long wait due to my exams, but here's the new content! I'll try to be more regular from now on :D

Please feel free to leave any thoughts or suggestions in the comments section below, and I'll see you in the next post!

Thanks for reading!