Before you read on, I want you to know this isn't a story about my family. I adore my mom; she's my best friend. This is an exploration of a question that has been haunting me lately, a question about the nature of love itself.
It started with a piece of news I can't shake. A man I knew distantly, a senior official in the government, took his own life. He had just finished distributing his son’s wedding invitations. The wedding, set for this Sunday, was the culmination of a five-year struggle. His son was marrying a woman from a different caste. Both families were well-respected, but the social barrier was immense. After years of fighting for their love, the couple had finally received their families' blessing. Or so it seemed.
What pushes a father to make such a choice days before his son's happiness is solidified?
It reminds me of a story from my college days, where a friend’s mother attempted suicide to stop him from marrying the girl he loved, all because of her caste. The couple tragically separated, choosing her life over their love.
These stories clash with everything we're taught to believe about parental love. We call it "unconditional," a sacred bond unlike any other. But is it? When love is used as a bargaining chip, with a parent's life hanging in the balance, it feels deeply, painfully conditional.
Parents rightfully point to their endless sacrifices—the sleepless nights, the worries, the constant care. It’s a debt we can never truly repay. But I question the motive behind reminding us of this debt. When a mother nurses a sick child, she isn't just easing the child's pain; she's easing her own. She simply cannot stand by and watch her child suffer.
That raw, protective instinct is beautiful. But it becomes a weapon when it's wielded as emotional blackmail to control a child's adult life. The moment a child’s choice threatens the family's "prestige" or "status," the conversation shifts from the child's well-being to the family's reputation. In that moment, love is no longer about the child; it's about the image.
It leads me to a bigger, more uncomfortable thought: perhaps all human relationships are transactional. We are driven by our wants, our needs, and our expectations. We hurt each other when reality doesn't align with the stories in our heads.
In this, animals seem far more evolved. They raise their young and set them free, expecting nothing in return. Theirs is a cycle of life, not a cycle of debt and obligation. We humans, with our complex societies and fragile egos, have learned to chain each other down with the weight of the past.
The irony is staggering. We pray for a child, we move mountains to bring one into the world, simply because we need them. They are the answer to our desires. But once they arrive, we forget that they are a person, not a project. We forget that the child who gave us the gift of parenthood deserves the freedom to live their own life.
The human heart is a paradox. It is capable of a love so fierce it can feel cosmic, yet so insecure it can be shattered by something as fragile as societal opinion. And for what? In the end, we all leave this world alone, with nothing but the love we gave and received—hopefully, without conditions.
