MEMOIR
The Selfless Life of My Mum and Dad
What are these people made of?
Who are these people?
Why are they made like this?
How can they love unconditionally?
The Dad
Born to a farmer and a homemaker, he hails from a remote village in north India. He was the middle child among three brothers and three sisters.
He went to a small school, with a seating capacity of twenty, on the outskirts of his village. He biked 40 miles back and forth throughout the higher secondary. He was the only child to make it to college when he wore full-length pants for the first time, like ever.
He dropped out of college because his father suffered a stroke. Everything they had was gone for his treatment. He took a job for 50 cents, per day, at a diner as a cleaner. He worked hard because he had the responsibility to get his youngest sister married to a decent boy.
He joined as a junior foreman in a government firm. He went back to an evening college in parallel. The next three years were monotonous — work during the day and studies at night. He graduated and never looked back. He retired as a senior accounts officer thirty years later from the same firm he joined as a junior foreman.
His parents married him to a small-town girl at the young age of twenty-five. Before he was thirty, he became father to a son and a daughter. He went through fifteen job transfers in as many years and hauled his family from one city to another. As his children grew up, he settled his family in a decent town and traveled alone for the next eight years.
He never did anything for himself. If his wife ever bought him a new shirt, he would get upset and ensure she returned it. He wanted to do everything he could for his spouse and children. Nothing could deter him from his goal — be it living alone in new cities, weather, work, half-cooked meals, or an aging body.
The Mum
She comes from a small town in north India, born to a banker and a homemaker. She is the second youngest child among four brothers and four sisters.
She lost her mother to cancer at the tender age of three. Raised by a sister-in-law, she got fed leftovers from her nephew and nieces.
A student par excellence, she wanted to major in Sanskrit. And she did make it to college before leaving it mid-term. Her father could have either supported her or her brother’s education. She fell victim to the culture where the daughters always lose out to sons.
Then, she got married to a farmer born; at the tender age of 20. She became a mother to a boy and a girl. She stood by her husband at every juncture, even when she had to pack the home she built with love and care. Again, and again, and again.
She fought her husband when he decided to settle his family in a good town. He decided to go through the grueling job transfers by himself. She didn’t want him to lose all the time with his kids. But she complied when she understood the long-term goal.
She took the lead to raise them, educate them, feed them, and manage chores and groceries. All alone. For eight long years. No vacations, no dates, no dinners — not a thing for herself. But never shed a tear in front of her children. Instead, she kept daring them to dream.
The Children
The son, a software engineer, works in the far lands across the Atlantic. He is working hard to fulfill his parents’ dreams. He is far from done.
The daughter married an automobile engineer and is a proud mother of two — a boy and a girl. Her parents ensured that another daughter would not lose out to a son. She was allowed to get far more educated than the son.
Mum and Dad are happy but alone, healthy but longing. Yet, they do not show even a glimpse of their sorrow.
We did not do anything special. We did what every parent does. We didn’t want you to go through what we went through. We took a leap of faith and dared you to dream. We have no regrets.
Who are these people?
Why are they made like this?
How can they love unconditionally?
Yes, I do not owe them, my love.
I owe them my life.
This memoir captures two contrasting years of my life when I saw humanity at its worst, at the tender age of ten.
