A Father’s Silent Protest - Weight of wet feet.

I’m standing at a crossroads, a damp towel in hand, water dripping from my fingers, staring at the feet I’m about to wash. My wife’s eyes are on me—pleading, insistent, bound by a culture she won’t let go of. My sons—my first in 12th grade, my second in 8th—are watching too, their threading ceremony looming like a storm cloud. And here I am, asking myself: Do I let my principles drown in this basin, or is it just my ego refusing to bend? I don’t know anymore. The pressure’s eating me alive—hers from society, mine from within.

This feet-washing ceremony, this Paada Pooja, they say it’s respect. Back in the day, it made sense—dusty roads, weary travelers, a gesture of humility to honor someone’s journey. Science backs me up here: feet were filthy, hygiene mattered, washing them was practical. But now? We’ve got shoes, roads, soap at every sink. It’s a relic, a blind belief clinging to life, and yet I’m forced to kneel before it. My principles scream no—rationality, logic, the modern world I want my boys to inherit—but my wife’s voice, her tears, her “this is for our son,” they’re louder. So I’ll do it. I’ll wash those feet. Not because I believe, but because I’m tired of fighting.

I look at my kids and wonder what they’ll take from this. Boys, listen: your dad’s letting go of something here. Not because I’m weak, but because I’m stuck—But don’t you dare follow me down this road. Be rational. Question everything. This ritual? It’s noise from the past, not a rule for your future. I’m doing it to satisfy someone else, not because it’s right.

Think of Mother Earth. She’s like me—a mud road trampled by every foot, bearing the unbearable without a word. She takes the weight, the filth, the endless steps, and stays quiet. But when she’s had enough—when the quakes come, the volcanoes roar—everyone feels her heat. I’m that road right now, soaking up the mess, silent under the pressure. But inside, I’m rumbling. One day, I might rise too, and this protest, this blog, is my tremor.

History’s seen this before. Take Jesus—not the divine figure, just the man—washing his disciples’ feet, then letting them nail him to a cross for their rituals, their beliefs. He bore it, stuck between the crowd’s cries and the weight of their faith, a nut crushed for someone else’s salvation. I’m no martyr, but I feel that squeeze. My principles are my cross, and I’m carrying them for my family’s peace.

Also, I think of Vasudeva sometimes, Krishna’s father, locked in a cell with Devaki, watching Kamsa rip their babies from her arms—one, two, six times—blood and screams staining the stone. He didn’t wield the weapon, but he bore the weight, didn’t he? A father helpless, chained by a tyrant’s ritual rage, all because of a prophecy he couldn’t fight. And then Krishna came, the eighth, the one who’d live—and Vasudeva carried him through the night, the Yamuna parting like a mother’s mercy, handing him to Yashoda to keep him safe. He went back to that prison, back to the chains, back to the lie, all for his son.

That’s me right now. No blood on my hands, but my principles are the babies Kamsa’s crushing. This feet-washing ceremony—it’s my prison, my wife’s blind belief the bars, her family’s expectations the prophecy I can’t escape. I’m not killing anything myself, but I’m watching my rationality die, piece by piece, as I dip that cloth in water. I’ll do it, like Vasudeva trudging back to his cell, because my son’s threading ceremony—his Upanayanam—is the Krishna I’m trying to save. I’m smuggling my love for him past this nonsense, hoping he’ll grow up free, rational, unshackled by what binds me now.

My boys, you’re my seventh and eighth—my 12th grader, my 8th grader—and I’m stuck between the nutcracker of tradition and the hand that turns it, just like Vasudeva was. He bore the unbearable for Krishna’s sake, and I’m bearing this for you. But don’t you dare stay in that prison. When you read this, know I bent so you wouldn’t have to. Kamsa’s dead now—Krishna saw to that. Kill the blind beliefs in your time, too.

So here’s my best shot, my rawest cry, I’m washing those feet, but I’m not cleansed. I’m compromised, not convinced. My boys, learn from this—don’t let blind belief pave your path. And if I’m a road, I’m not paved smooth—I’m cracked, muddy, defiant beneath every step. This is my mind, my protest, my gift to you.