यह नज़र भी उसी को ढूँढती है,
जो कभी उसका था ही नहीं।
दिल की गहराई से निकली चाहत,
जिसकी कोई मंज़िल ही नहीं।
तन्हा रातों का वो मुसाफ़िर,
जिसकी कोई हमदम ही नहीं।
ख्वाबों में भी जिसकी परछाई,
हकीकत में जिसकी आहट ही नहीं।
यह नज़र भी उसी को ढूँढती है,
जो कभी उसका था ही नहीं।
Following up on my earlier post today, I want to share something deeply personal that has weighed on me. My upbringing was quite unusual for its time. I grew up in a nuclear family, a rarity in an era when large families were the norm. My grandfather was an only child, and I never heard of him having any siblings who might have died at birth, which was a common tragedy back then. An only child was quite the opposite to families with more than six to eight kids.
My father’s family also faced its share of loss. He had two elder siblings; one passed away shortly after birth, and another at the age of eight from an illness. This left my father and his sister as the only surviving children. Tragically, my grandmother died while giving birth to her fifth child. What was truly uncommon was that my grandfather chose not to remarry, despite being young enough to do so in a society where it was expected.
After my aunt got married, our household naturally became a nuclear family. To add to this, my grandfather passed away the year before I was born. This meant my mother never experienced living with in-laws, nor did she ever have to navigate the complexities of a relationship with a mother-in-law.
When I got married, my understanding of handling in-laws was purely fictional. I had no practical experience, having never witnessed such dynamics at home. It was just what I heard from others, never saw it happen before my eyes. I was genuinely eager to learn how people managed large families, picturing them as vibrant hubs of activity and fun, with endless family functions. And yes, many functions do happen, which is wonderful! But what I hadn't anticipated was the undercurrent of "kitchen politics."
With no interaction with my husband before our wedding, I struggled immensely in the beginning to understand the unspoken rules and navigate who to say what to. Perhaps my innocent demeanor or my ignorance of this family led people to believe I can be easily manipulated, because my expectations of a large, joyful family quickly clashed with the harsh reality I faced. I found myself with a number of mothers-in-law, all seemingly ready to critique everything from my posture to my clothing to every word I uttered or even when I didn't speak at all.
I have to admit, I now despise the "kitchen politics" so much that I've retreated, choosing to say nothing to anyone. It feels as though I've stagnated in building new relationships within my married life; my closest connections remain the same people I had before marriage.
A growing sense of isolation and loneliness consumes me daily. As a woman, there's an unspoken expectation that my primary attachments should shift from my birth family to my in-laws. But how can I achieve this alone when I'm consistently made to feel like an outsider, even after years of being a part of this family? Can I truly make everyone my own if they're unwilling to embrace me as one of them?
It's easy to hear advice like, "learn to leave the baggage behind if it's burdening you." But the truth is, I often wonder, how much, and what exactly, am I supposed to leave behind? Am I simply a solo traveler on this journey of life? Was it a fault to accept challenges head-on instead of trying to run away? Was it a mistake to hold onto positivity, even when a part of me knew things might not be as ideal as I hoped?
Life often feels like an endless series of problems to solve. Yet, it's those meaningful relationships that are supposed to provide moral support, offer new ideas, and inspire us to explore our abilities. Sadly, in my current situation, this feels unfulfilled. I've come a long way from being positive and believing that divine help would guide my every step, to now feeling quite the opposite. I've reached a point where I've had to accept that many of my dreams may simply remain out of reach.
I've found myself replacing my own aspirations with what was offered to me, even when it didn't truly resonate. Perhaps the first time I did this set a precedent, leading to a recurring pattern. I feel like a fool for understanding this cycle, yet feeling utterly powerless to change it.
I recently watched a powerful video of a woman my age, born the same year as me, openly sharing her struggles on social media. We both grew up in similar tier-3 cities or towns, and it was striking how much our mindsets aligned. Even if her background was more affluent than mine, I immediately connected with her experience.
Though she hadn't yet fully revealed the source of her pain, I had a strong intuition about it. She's a woman with only sisters. This resonated deeply with me because I have several friends from my childhood and college who also grew up in all-girl households. While I still wish I'd had a sister, I've witnessed some of the unique challenges these friends have faced.
I remember my parents talking about how, in their time, families often preferred not to marry their sons to girls who didn't have brothers. The belief was that without brothers, a girl would lack long-term ties to her original family after her parents were gone. One of my closest childhood friends, Kunu, didn't have a brother. Tragically, she passed away at a young age, and the reasons were never entirely clear to me.
Another college friend, who has two elder sisters, often shares the difficulties they've encountered with parental property and the disagreements that arose between the sisters after marriage. In some ways, it makes me feel like they behave more like brothers who drift apart after marriage. Yet, I also see my mother and aunt, both sisters, thoroughly enjoying their old age together. They aren't dependent on us or my cousins; instead, they prefer to live together, chatting about their childhoods in retirement, just like two best friends.
I'm incredibly grateful to the woman who is bravely sharing her story publicly. It takes immense courage to reveal your vulnerabilities and what you've been through. No one's life is a smooth, one-way road filled only with happiness. Most of our lives are marked by numerous U-turns, steep downhill slopes, and only brief periods of effortless upward movement. It's truly difficult to find such genuine openness in people these days.
What are your thoughts on shared experiences and the complexities of family dynamics?
Never did I dream,
When I was just a teen,
That the love I felt so strong,
Would stay with me for so long.
I wish I could forget,
Erase every regret.
If only I had better luck,
To escape this memory's stuck.
Still, I live in that old dream,
It feels safe, a gentle stream.
My body's grown, but in my head,
Those young thoughts aren't quite dead.
Why did I care so deep,
For something you didn't keep?
It didn't mean much to you,
But for me, it felt so true.
I wish I could be like you,
So easy to let go, it's true.
To find new luck, new love, with grace,
Just like you did, in your own place.
Today was a day for rest and rejuvenation. After a turbulent night's sleep, my mantra was simply to unwind. I found solace in the soulful ghazals of Jagjit Singh, letting his melodies wash over me as I delved into the meaning of each word. It was a day dedicated to enjoying my own company, a much-needed reprieve.
It's interesting how often life seems to echo my thoughts. I've often found my internal questions reflected in the newspaper, and today was no different. An article touched on the very nature of these recurring questions, suggesting they stem from an inherent tendency to compare our life experiences with others. Perhaps it's true; maybe I see those around me navigating life with more apparent ease, wishing for similar moments of joy and success, even as I genuinely celebrate their happiness.
As an eight-year-old, I could never have imagined the complexities and beautiful moments life would throw my way. Yet, when I look to the future, an unknown fear creeps in, a sense of uncertainty about what lies ahead. Maybe everyone harbors these same fears, carefully hidden from view, especially when children are present. I remember, as a teenager, sensing my own parents' anxieties, and from then on, a similar apprehension took root in me. I've managed to navigate through it, but that lingering fear, in hindsight, still troubles me.
This is why I've always yearned for someone who could simply sit with me and understand, even without words. Life, in its peculiar way, did grant me such a connection – someone who could articulate my doubts and fears, but it was, unfortunately, short-lived.
I recall a particularly challenging time when I received two excellent job offers. However, my father's wish for me to marry first led me to decline them. Neither of us could have foreseen that marriage wouldn't bring the satisfaction we hoped for. I genuinely regret not taking those opportunities; at the very least, I could have gained more financial independence during those years. Despite witnessing so many difficult marriages among his peers and even people my age, my father remained remarkably optimistic about my future.
For the sake of his optimism, I reluctantly agreed, stepping into the unknown without a clear vision. To this day, I've managed to put on a good show for others, but deep down, loneliness persists. Perhaps this is why one must never compromise on their fundamental desires from the very beginning. Life will inevitably demand compromises, and one day, the weight of them might become overwhelming. But in those moments, I truly felt I had no other path. I took a chance, hoping for a stroke of good luck.
An evening spent with scripture recently stirred something deep within me. The text spoke of our earthly existence as merely a dream, an illusion for our soul, not its true reality. The interaction described was between the soul and the divine after death, with the divine declaring, "That was just your illusion, not reality." For a brief moment, those words offered immense comfort, a gentle easing of the ever-present weight of life.
But, as it often does, my mind quickly spun back into the familiar whirlwind of my daily reality. Is this truly an illusion? Or is the meeting with the divine something that awaits us only after death?
Perhaps psychology or philosophy could offer some profound insights, but I'm just a flawed human, grappling to comprehend the vastness of this creation, its intricate balance, and its mysterious trajectory. Yet, in that same moment of reflection, Osho's words resurfaced: "All these scriptures teach us what happens post-death, but not what we should do for a fulfilled life." He has a point. Where is fulfillment? It feels like our human minds are constantly busy manufacturing new desires, and perhaps that's the primary culprit in our inability to feel truly content.
Maybe you're one of the fortunate ones who sees a different picture, whose path is clearer. But I find myself caught in a relentless cycle of one storm after another, desperately trying to discern if it's finally passed or if it's just gathering strength to strike again. I've spent so long striving for happiness by any means necessary, only to realize, much later, that it's simply not going to happen that way.
I honestly wish I could just end this never-ending "bad dream" of mine. When I have a nightmare at night, I can jolt myself awake. Why doesn't that happen in life?
Just yesterday, some senior citizens in my community shared a lovely message about finding happiness in your 60s, and I instinctively forwarded it to my family. My brother's immediate response perfectly captured the irony: "Tell me how to be happy now! I'll worry about my 60s later." My cousins and I shared a good laugh over that. Then, today, one of them sent a list of tests for early cancer detection in your 40s. All I could think was, "Who wants a long life? If you do, go for it. I, for one, don't wish to prolong this." Life, after all, will inevitably end, whether by illness or accident. So, why fear it? Of course, I have no control over life or death. But if I'm meant to survive for a long time, please, just wake me up from this bad dream.
Today, I stumbled upon a thought-provoking reel that really made me pause. The speaker made a stark point: if you were no longer here, your position at work, your business, your friends, and even your family would eventually move on. Life, they argued, continues without you. Therefore, the takeaway was clear: we must prioritize caring for ourselves.
It's a valid perspective, and I understand the sentiment behind it. However, a question immediately sprung to mind: what exactly does "caring for ourselves" truly entail, especially when taken to an extreme? While the idea of focusing solely on oneself might sound appealing, I can't help but wonder if it's genuinely fulfilling.
Can we truly be happy in isolation? My immediate answer is no. We are, by nature, social creatures. We need people to share our joys, our laughter, and yes, even our moments of sadness and tears. The notion of going to the cinema or a restaurant alone, while sometimes necessary, often feels more like a concession than a celebration. While we should absolutely be prepared to navigate life independently if circumstances demand it – think traveling or dining solo in a new country – it's rarely a source of sustained enjoyment if it becomes the norm.
Perhaps this is precisely why we're designed to be sociable – to build connections, to share our journeys, and to experience life together. The richness of human experience often lies in the shared moments, the empathetic ear, and the collective support.
This brings to mind another speaker whose words resonated deeply with me. Her suggestion was simple yet profound: give what you feel you lack to others, and you will ultimately attract it into your life. I, for instance, often yearn for someone to truly listen to me. Following her advice, I thought about how I could be a better listener to others, offering compassion and understanding, especially to those facing pain and sorrow.
Shortly after, a friend called. I'd mentioned previously that he'd suffered a paralytic attack, leaving one of his hands impaired, and consequently, he lost his job. His wife now works in a different city, and their child is with maternal grandparents. It's a truly challenging situation, and I expected to hear the weight of his struggles. Yet, to my surprise, I heard a smiling voice on the other end, just as I remembered from our college days. His tone, his way of speaking – nothing had changed.
Despite knowing the immense difficulties he's facing, I found myself unable to directly ask about his situation. I simply listened to what he was saying. While I know the ache he must feel deep down, his ability to project such normalcy was both inspiring and heartbreaking. After a few minutes, we ended our call. I'm aware that many people are dealing with incredible pain, and perhaps my own challenges pale in comparison. Still, I find myself wishing for a bit more luck, a deeper sense of satisfaction and contentment in my own life.
What are your thoughts on finding balance between self-care and our innate need for connection? Share your perspective in the comments below!
Growing Through the Cracks: A Reflection on Hope and Hardship
I recently came across a fascinating image: a tree, not thriving in fertile soil, but stubbornly growing in the narrow crevices between two massive boulders. Its roots, against all odds, meticulously trace every tiny gap, gradually widening them. This image resonated deeply with me, mirroring the diverse journeys of human life. Some are born into nurturing environments, much like a sapling in rich soil. Others, however, endure harsh conditions from the very beginning, like that resilient tree.
When the weight of daily life feels overwhelming, I often find myself questioning the divine. Why does intervention seem to arrive only when I'm in the throes of immense pain? Why can't guidance appear before things spiral out of control? Why must suffering precede blessings? And why, oh why, couldn't I have been blessed with a bit more luck from the start? In these moments of agony, the solitude can be deafening, even with others physically present. It feels like no one truly sees or cares about the depth of the struggle.
I’ve heard scholars say that our expectations are the root of our pain. But then, what should I expect? Isn't expectation, in its purest form, a kind of hope? The hope that things will improve after a period of hardship, the expectation that suffering will eventually end. How can one expect nothing yet still remain hopeful? Without hope, where would this imaginative mind wander? And why must life stretch so long that the very thought of not hoping becomes a crushing burden?
Am I transforming into a worse person, or am I evolving into a better one through these trials? I have a multitude of questions, a cascade of "whys" and "hows," but to whom can I pose them? Who possesses the wisdom or the empathy to calm this restless mind? Who is willing to listen to a stream of unanswerable inquiries that seem to lead nowhere? I confess, I'm at a loss. If there truly is a higher power, I plead: unravel these knots, answer these questions, and bring some semblance of peace to this turbulent soul.
What are your thoughts on this perspective? Do you find yourself grappling with similar questions about hope, suffering, and divine intervention?
Happy Guru Purnima, dear readers! Today, the air is filled with reverence as we celebrate the sacred occasion of Guru Purnima, a day dedicated to honoring our gurus and teachers. It is particularly auspicious as it marks the birthday of the very sage we are about to explore: Rishi Ved Vyasa.
So, let's step back in time, far beyond the confines of our bustling modern lives, to an era where gods walked among men, and sages held the wisdom of the cosmos. Our journey takes us to the heart of ancient India, to unravel the fascinating story of a being whose very existence shaped the destiny of a subcontinent and gifted humanity its most profound epic: Rishi Ved Vyasa.
His life isn't just a biography; it's a saga in itself, woven with threads of divine intervention, profound purpose, and an unyielding commitment to Dharma.
Born of the Waters: The Mystical Dawn of Dwaipayana
Imagine a serene morning on the banks of the mighty Yamuna River. A young, captivating woman named Satyavati, known for her captivating beauty and a peculiar fishy scent (which would soon transform into a divine fragrance), ferried people across the waters. One day, a revered and powerful sage, Parashara, sought passage. He was not just any sage; he possessed foresight and recognized a unique, auspicious moment.
Parashara was drawn to Satyavati, not merely by her beauty, but by the cosmic alignment that indicated the birth of an extraordinary being. With his immense yogic powers, he created a secluded, misty island in the middle of the river, ensuring their privacy. He blessed Satyavati, granting her the boon of a divine fragrance and preserving her maidenhood. From this ethereal union, on that very island, a child was born.
This child was Krishna Dwaipayana – "Krishna" for his dark complexion, and "Dwaipayana" for his island birth. But this was no ordinary birth. The moment he was born, he was not a wailing infant but a fully grown, enlightened being, imbued with immense knowledge and spiritual power. With a promise to his mother that he would return whenever she needed him, he immediately departed for the dense forests and mighty Himalayas to undertake rigorous penance and assimilate the vast cosmic knowledge. Thus began the journey of the one who would eventually be known as Ved Vyasa, the classifier of the Vedas.
The Architect of the Mahabharata: When Ganesha Held the Pen
Centuries passed. Krishna Dwaipayana, now revered as Vyasa, had accomplished monumental feats. He had observed that the human mind was growing weaker, its capacity diminishing, making it difficult to grasp the entirety of the vast, undivided knowledge contained in the single Veda. So, in an act of unparalleled service to humanity, he undertook the colossal task of classifying the Veda into four distinct parts: Rig, Yajur, Sama, and Atharva. This monumental achievement earned him the eternal title of Ved Vyasa.
But his work was far from over. He conceived of an epic, a grand narrative that would encapsulate the essence of Dharma, Artha, Kama, and Moksha – the four pursuits of human life. This would be the story of the Kuru dynasty, a tale of righteous kings, noble warriors, cunning villains, and the ultimate triumph of good over evil: the Mahabharata.
This epic was so vast, so comprehensive, that Vyasa needed a scribe of divine intellect. He meditated upon Lord Brahma, who then advised him to seek the help of Lord Ganesha. Ganesha agreed to write, but with a condition: Vyasa had to dictate continuously, without pause. Vyasa, with his sharp intellect, accepted, but with his own counter-condition: Ganesha must understand every verse before he wrote it. This ingenious exchange allowed Vyasa to compose intricate and complex verses, giving him a moment's pause while Ganesha pondered their meaning, thus allowing Vyasa to formulate the next verses.
Imagine the scene: the great sage, his mind a torrent of wisdom, dictating the verses, and the elephant-headed god, his broken tusk serving as a pen, meticulously inscribing the longest poem known to humanity. It was an act of divine collaboration that gifted us the very fabric of Hindu philosophy and history.
Father to a Dynasty: A Necessity Born of Dharma
Vyasa's life wasn't just about scholarship; it was intertwined with the very lineage whose story he was chronicling. Remember Satyavati, his mother? After her union with Parashara, she later married King Shantanu of Hastinapura. Shantanu's son, Bhishma, took an impossible vow of celibacy, ensuring his father's happiness but leaving the Kuru lineage without an heir. Shantanu's other son, Vichitravirya, died young, also childless.
The Kuru dynasty faced extinction. A desperate Satyavati remembered her powerful son, Vyasa, and invoked his promise. She pleaded with him to ensure the continuation of the royal line through the ancient practice of Niyoga – a custom where a qualified man could beget children with a childless widow for the sole purpose of lineage continuation, driven by duty, not desire.
Vyasa, despite his ascetic nature, agreed out of profound respect for his mother and his deep understanding of Dharma, which mandated the continuation of the royal lineage for the welfare of the kingdom.
* First, Ambika, Vichitravirya's first wife, was sent to him. Overwhelmed by his austere and intense spiritual aura, she closed her eyes in fear. Consequently, her son, Dhritarashtra, was born blind.
* Next came Ambalika, the second wife. She turned pale upon seeing Vyasa's formidable presence. Her son, Pandu, was born with a pale complexion and a tendency towards ill-health.
* Disappointed, Satyavati asked Ambika to try again. But Ambika, still fearful, sent her intelligent maidservant instead. The maidservant approached Vyasa with reverence and calmness. Her son, Vidura, born from this union, was the epitome of wisdom and righteousness, considered an incarnation of Dharma himself.
Thus, Vyasa, the ascetic, the scholar, the divine compiler, also became the biological father of the three pivotal figures who would steer the course of the Mahabharata: the blind king Dhritarashtra, the pale but mighty Pandu, and the wise and just Vidura.
The Eternal Sage and a Serene Reminder
Ved Vyasa is not just a character from a distant past; he is a timeless presence. He is considered one of the Chiranjivis, the immortals who live on for the welfare of humanity. His teachings, embedded in the Mahabharata, the Puranas, and the Brahma Sutras, continue to illuminate the path of Dharma, guiding us through the complexities of life.
It's a testament to his enduring legacy that places associated with him still hold a unique spiritual pull. I remember a particularly memorable visit during my 3rd year of engineering, when I was in Rourkela for a summer course at the Rourkela Steel Plant. I had the opportunity to visit Vedvyas in Rourkela, Odisha. This isn't just a geographical location; it's a unique and serene confluence point of three rivers – Shankha, Koel, and Saraswati (which flows underground). The calm atmosphere, the gentle murmur of the rivers, and the ancient temple complex dedicated to Ved Vyasa create an incredibly peaceful and spiritually uplifting experience. It felt like stepping into a different realm, a tangible connection to the very sage whose stories I'd grown up with. It's truly a spot where you can feel the echoes of ancient wisdom.
His story is a testament to the power of purpose, the depth of spiritual wisdom, and the enduring legacy of a sage who, through his unparalleled contributions, truly became the "Guru of the Universe."
What are your thoughts on this extraordinary sage and the significance of Guru Purnima? Share them in the comments below!
A story I read years ago in a Sunday newspaper has stayed with me ever since, its unsettling details lingering in my mind. I'm not sure why I was so drawn to such narratives back then, but now I wonder if it would have been better to have never encountered them at all. Did they shape me, or simply reveal the harsh realities life can present? Regardless, their imprint remains.
The story revolved around a married, working woman who desperately yearned for a child. Her husband's health condition, however, made conception impossible. Her depression was palpable, even to her colleagues. One day, her boss, a seemingly considerate man, broached the sensitive topic. Hesitantly, she confided in him about her struggles. To her surprise, he invoked a Hindu belief that permits having a child outside of marriage if the partner is unable to conceive. He suggested, "You can have a kid with anyone." When she, perhaps impulsively, asked if he would help, he was taken aback but ultimately agreed. They devised a plan: she would give her husband homeopathic medicine, claiming it would aid conception. Their clandestine encounter in a hotel room led to a successful pregnancy. Her husband, blissfully unaware, attributed their good fortune to the medicine.
Yet, a profound incompleteness settled upon the woman. In her private world, she replayed the intimate moment with her boss, the one that brought her child into existence. They never spoke of it again, remaining colleagues who respected each other's boundaries. Still, the memory of that shared moment continued to haunt her, leaving her with an enduring sense of unfulfillment.
Echoes in Literature and Modern Solutions
A few months ago, I encountered a similar theme in an Amrita Pritam story. In her narrative, a woman conceives a child with her brother-in-law, raising the child with funds she earned or received from him. Despite her marriage, her affection for her brother-in-law persisted.
More recently, I watched a film about the first IVF procedure, though I only saw half of it. It struck me how thankfully, medical advancements like IVF now offer a path to parenthood, sparing women the need to seek out multiple partners to conceive. The desire to experience parenthood is a fundamental human need, and it should be accessible to all. While some cultures forbid IVF, our own scriptures offer a different perspective. The birth of the Kauravas—99 brothers and one sister—to mother Gandhari in a process akin to IVF, or Kunti and Madri conceiving children with different gods due to Pandu's inability to father, all suggest unconventional paths to procreation. Even Dhritarashtra, Pandu, and Vidura were born from Rishi Vedavyas, and Satyavati, Vedavyas's mother, conceived him with Rishi Parashar, not her husband Santanu.
The Unspoken Plight of Women
Despite these historical and mythological precedents, there's a glaring omission: nowhere do these narratives fully explore the emotional and personal toll on women who undertake such journeys simply to have a child. Our scriptures often prioritize societal norms and lineage over the individual needs of a woman. Why is it that a woman's fundamental desire for a complete and satisfying life, encompassing the experience of motherhood, seems to be overlooked? Conversely, if a woman is unable to conceive, the man can simply marry another woman, often taking care of both women. Why is this disparity so prevalent? Atleast he do not have to just have a kid.
Love, a bargain, it seems, a peculiar art,
Where if you cherish, you play but a small part.
Too available, your worth starts to fade,
The love you deserve, a promise unmade.
Play too cautious, and love slips like sand,
For fading it does, with a careful hand.
Take a bold risk, yet it still takes its flight,
Perhaps too risky, you lose the good fight.
So tell me, dear heart, how is this game won?
For I have failed, and my loving's not done.
Though my love is gone, a part of me yearns,
For the self that was mad, where passion still burns.
That self that cared, and tried to embrace,
Gave its everything, in love's tender space.
Yet I lost in this game, with a heavy, sad sigh,
Still I love the same, as moments go by.
Did I truly mature, or did I simply age? This question gnaws at me today, amplified by a newspaper article on aging and maturity. Why couldn't I foresee my present struggles when I was younger? Why did I consistently sideline my own needs, prioritizing the understanding of others? Even when I didn't give people exactly what they wanted, I was always trying to grasp their situations, their states of mind.
Is this maturity, or a profound denial of my own problems, an endless effort to just "understand" others as they are? Was I seeking to please them, or just clinging to the hope that everything would somehow work out? Unlike my peers, why did I always believe "it will be fine"?
Now, I find myself struggling to understand my own needs, to discern what's truly best for me. Am I a fool for thinking I could navigate anything, or for not knowing myself at all?
I recently watched a powerful reel featuring a mother of a child with special needs. She candidly shared a profound realization: her current struggles felt like an echo of her past, a consequence of her youthful inability to empathize with her own mother's pain. As a teenager, her father suffered paralysis, rendering him bedridden. Her mother, overwhelmed by the demanding care, desperately needed help. Yet, this woman, then a teen, admitted she didn't grasp the gravity of the situation and often failed to offer timely assistance. She confessed that her present challenges, caring for her own child with special needs, felt like a harsh lesson, a mirroring of the very burden her mother once carried. Her message was clear and deeply appreciated: it's crucial to understand and support those around us.
It takes immense courage to acknowledge personal shortcomings, strive for amends, and then openly share that vulnerability to guide others. However, a nagging question lingered in my mind: Is it truly just for someone to carry the burden of a childhood mistake throughout their entire life? Wasn't witnessing her father's paralysis and the subsequent upheaval a punishment in itself? Surely, it brought immense financial, psychological, and emotional strain to the entire family. They must have, in some way, collectively endured that suffering. To then face a similar, lifelong dependency with her own child – how can this be justified? Is it not cruel that a lack of understanding as a teenager could lead to such a profound and enduring consequence? As I understand it, most religions depict God as all-merciful. So, why would such suffering not be alleviated? Why must a person who so clearly recognizes their past error continue to endure such hardship?
This reflection brought to mind a similar experience from my own life, back when I was in 9th or 10th grade. My aunt, my father's sister, visited and I overheard her comparing her misfortunes to my father's, lamenting her lack of his "fortune." At the time, I couldn't comprehend her pain; I only registered her jealousy. Of course, her life had been incredibly tough. She couldn't continue her studies after my grandmother's passing, married young, and had a much larger family than ours. She too had a child with special needs, all of which fueled her envy. Tragically, she passed away prematurely, unable to cope with the immense pain that ultimately led to her illness.
Where does it all go wrong? Why does God not grant mercy to those who so desperately need it? Sometimes, it feels like a cruel paradox: just as money begets more money, pain seems to beget more pain.
A love in my mind, a phantom so bright,
He laughs with my soul, he holds me so tight.
Always beside me, a comforting guide,
This version of you, where true feelings hide.
But reality calls, a harsh, sudden chime,
It's just me, this vision, a trick of time.
Perhaps you were different, a stranger unknown,
Yet my heart won't release what my mind has sown.
Years fade like whispers, but he lingers on,
This dream I created, at dusk and at dawn.
Was it ever real? I truly can't say,
This love I still carry, come what may.
I question the heavens, why this path for me?
To love what was never, nor meant to be.
What good has this burden, this ache I still bear?
A love unfulfilled, hanging in the air.
Today, understanding, a truth I embrace,
How could I bring joy, or fill your life's space?
My soul etched with sorrow, a constant, deep sign,
If pain was my choice, then you were not mine.
You, meant for triumphs, for dreams to take flight,
And I, to surrender, and fade into light.
So different our paths, no match to be found,
Yet this echo of you, forever profound.
Let me hold this illusion, till memories cease,
Or I, too, am erased, finding ultimate peace.
