In Search of Harmony

Outside the cafe, Bangalore was dissolving in the rain. Through the smeared glass windows, nothing was quite clear. The overhead fan was spinning at its limit. I was still sweating. Years in the Seattle cold had made me a stranger to this air. I knew this place very well. Looking at the brown smudge on the glass I knew it was my mother’s apartment. The neighboring white shape was the hospital. I had spent seven weeks at this very hospital while my dad battled for his life. A battle he fought, but we all lost.

I turned away from the window and knew who I would see across from me. The person I had been avoiding for nine years. I had named him 'the martyr' in my journal, a title born of a lifetime bowing to societal expectations. His drooping shoulders carried the weight of several sleepless weeks. He was looking at the hospital. I saw his jaw clench as he turned his gaze towards me. I felt a lump of guilt in my throat and dropped my eyes to my open journal on the table.

“Nine years,” he scoffed. The martyr’s voice jerked my head up. “I wonder if his ashes were still hot when you packed your bags and ran. And now after nine years, here you are, visiting from your better life.”

I sat back. “I am at peace,” I admitted. “I did not know how to manage my own emotional storm. The anger towards everyone for expecting more out of me, the sadness of dad passing, the feeling of defeat and shame from my marriage ending. They were all drowning me.”

This was our conflict. I left to avoid drowning. He was always ready to be the dam holding the water.

“You had a responsibility!” he snapped. “You were supposed to be a good son. You should have stayed and taken care of the family, like you always had. Instead, you abandoned the wreckage when the captain was lost.”

The old wound of losing dad tore open. I also felt the weight of the martyr’s expectations. Every time we had tried to have this conversation, I had wanted to leave.

I took a few deep breaths. I didn’t want to give up on this conversation.

“Living for approvals was killing me,” I said. “I was the dutiful son but my life was a performance. When he died, the curtains dropped and I had no idea who I was outside that act.”

The martyr leaned forward, placing his hands on the table. “So you left for the US, leaving your people and life here as if nothing mattered? What happened to the guy who gave up his dream to live abroad when his dad was diagnosed?”

He knew every corner of my history. He always had. Nine years of silence had found an opening. And it was spewing lava.

The martyr continued, “After dad died, mom was devastated and lost. How could you then leave her when she was all alone?“

I winced. Memories came back. How every conversation with mom after dad died had jagged edges. After those conversations I wondered if dad passed away because I did not do enough. The thought of being responsible for my dad’s death was like the stone in my throat that I could neither swallow, nor spit.

“When the doctors told me that dad wouldn’t make it, I felt like I was drowning in icy waters,” I said. “I thought when I told mom about this, I would be brave for her. But I wouldn’t have to grieve dad alone. I could see our world crumbling and all I wanted was to hug her and cry my heart out.” My voice softened. “But we never spoke about our common grief. When I told her, she got upset with me and asked me to leave her alone. She hugged and cried before others but I never got a hug. She did not need me. I had lost both parents then.”

I remembered spending the next couple of weeks carrying out my responsibilities, while my eyes welled up frequently. “No hug, I only got lists of things to do. Stand in line to get dad’s death certificate, take care of tedious bank formalities to ensure mom had access to their joint money, take care of utility transfers and on it went. When I finally got home at the end of the day, I never got to sit with mom and talk or cry. I just had another list waiting.”

The martyr looked right through me. I saw his anger rise. “She had lost her husband. She needed someone to run the house. She needed someone to help her figure out her life. That was your responsibility!“

It wasn’t the first time I was being asked to let go of my emotions and carry out my responsibilities. Suppressing emotions, convincing myself that I was not weak and carrying out what others expected of me had become second nature to me. Until I no longer knew what I wanted for myself. It had taken me a decade to learn to sit with my emotions, without being afraid of them or suppressing them.

“I had just lost my father. It was my time to grieve for him. In fact I hoped mom, brother and I would be there for each other as a family,“ I said. “My internal container had been at capacity for years. Dad’s death was the final drop that made the overflow inevitable. I had to start addressing my own needs.”

The martyr clenched his jaws. “Are you saying she was a bad mother to you?” he asked.

I offered a small, quiet shake of my head. “No,” I said. “She did not know how to grieve for her husband of forty-three years. And that took the form of anger towards me.” The ghost of our family dynamic was staring back at me. “We never spoke about our emotions within our family. You had to be happy and work hard. Any difficult emotion quickly shapeshifted into an angry monster. I understand her anger now, after sitting with it in solitude. I just did not want to live that way any more.”

The martyr looked confused. “You left your mother here all alone, while you grew comfortable in your life abroad. Have you seriously started believing your excuses?” he sneered.

“I did grow comfortable. But not in the way you think,” I said. “I grew comfortable asking myself what I want from my life. I grew comfortable realizing that I don't need others to approve my choices. I grew comfortable sitting with my guilt and hurt but still pursuing what's right for me,” I continued. I clasped my hands. “And I grew comfortable trusting mom, an adult, to figure out her next phase of life. I will always be around for her. But I grew comfortable not giving up on my own life to save her,” I said.

I studied his facial expressions, much like a child searching their parents' faces for a sign of approval. His eyes widened. His shoulders loosened as if some of the weight on them was lifted.

His voice was genuinely curious now with no hint of anger. “Was it worth it? Leaving everything behind. Building a comfortable life elsewhere after having preached about family values all along,” he asked.

The martyr had finally asked questions through which I had an opportunity to reach him. “I hadn't abandoned my family values,” I said. “My life in Seattle allowed me to be near and foster a relationship with my little niece. I was no longer a face on the phone to her. I was part of her life and she enjoyed spending time with me. When mom came visiting every year, we were all together as a family. It was not always easy with our old habits still at play. But there were enough moments of laughter and joy in it to make it worth it.”

But the martyr’s question about moving away from home being worth it, was not an easy one. That was an internal conflict I had struggled with.

I continued, “The help I found in Seattle to work on myself changed everything. Being able to be alone and finding peace in that solitude was my biggest learning. Allowing myself to make mistakes and taking accountability was liberating. Spending time on new hobbies that meaningfully added joy and health to my life felt like living. I could pursue these because I wasn’t afraid of judgement. And thinking of them, it definitely felt worth having left.”

I felt the lump back in my throat. “Then there were those times when mom fell ill. And I wished I was right next to her to care for her,“ I said softly. “In those times, I regretted everything. I regretted having left. I regretted not doing enough to save dad. I regretted choosing me.” I choked.

We looked at each other. The fight in the martyr’s eyes had been replaced by a soft, dull ache.

“And what about me? How had you convinced yourself that it was okay to abandon me?” the martyr whimpered.

I stared at the martyr, the question hanging in the dead air between us. “I… I didn’t abandon…” my voice broke.

"You are here because you feel guilty, aren’t you?” said the martyr. "You need absolution. You want me to tell you that it was okay to leave me. You want me to forgive you for being selfish."

It was true. I did want him to say all those things. My decade long work on myself needed him to forgive me. And then I could accept myself completely. “I want acceptance,” I admitted. “I want you to understand that staying was not a choice.”

I looked at his tired face turning to the hospital. At that moment I understood him better. His anger was never about responsibility or family values. It came from the grief of a man who felt abandoned. For nine years I had avoided this conversation because I did not know how to face this conflict. To face him.

On his face was the raw grief of a man who had just lost his father. A man drowning in responsibilities he didn't choose. Someone who did not yet know how to sit with his grief.

I capped my pen slowly, the soft click was loud in the quiet between us. The fresh ink in my journal had words that felt like a fragile bridge built between two completely different men. Both men, still alive within me, pulling in opposite directions.

When I lifted my eyes, I caught my reflection in the rain streaked window. The dutiful version of me staring back across nine years. I knew that face. I had worn it for years.

Under my breath, I whispered “Shedding you was the only way I could start living. Yet, there are mornings, where I wake up as you and feel less certain of my choices.”