Chapter Four: The Slow Descent

 

Chapter Four: The Slow Descent

Life doesn't always collapse with loud thunder. Sometimes, it disintegrates slowly—layer by layer, day by day, in silence. That’s how my father began his descent. Not through an obvious breakdown, not with shouting or screaming, but with a quiet crumbling that no one noticed until it was too late.

He was still the man who got up early every day. Still the one who rode his cycle for over an hour to reach his post at Northern Railways. Still the one who handed over his entire salary at the end of the month without question. But inside, something had begun to shift. And like most men of his time, he never spoke of it. The burdens simply sat inside his chest, like stones sinking deeper and deeper with every passing year.

By now, family pressures were no longer occasional—they were constant.

He had fulfilled his duty as a son by supporting his siblings, getting his sister married, and being the breadwinner for the entire household. But just when it seemed like things might become lighter, another storm approached. This time, it came with promises of success. Of building something big. Of lifting the family’s status.

It came in the form of a government scheme.

There was an opportunity at the time for women who had cleared their 10th standard to get financial aid or loans from the government to start small-scale industries. My grandmother, ever ambitious, decided that this was the next move. But since she couldn’t apply herself—having not met the qualifications—she insisted that my father take the loan on my mother's name.

It was never a request. It was a demand.

And so, without full understanding or consent, a loan of ₹20,000 was taken in my mother’s name. It may not sound like a lot now, but in 1989, ₹20,000 was a massive amount. You could buy a house. You could purchase half a kilogram of gold. You could change a family’s fate.

But instead of changing ours, it almost destroyed it.

My mother was in deep shock. She wasn’t consulted about the loan, yet her name was now on legal documents, and she was the one held accountable. There were no guarantees, no plans, and worst of all, no respect for the gravity of what had been done in her name.

The money came and vanished almost as quickly.

A small amount was used to rent a space and buy some machines for a small factory—a dream industry that was spoken about with grand vision. But the rest of the money? No one knew. It disappeared into vague purchases, false promises, and perhaps even manipulation.

The factory failed within months.

It wasn’t managed properly. There was no real plan, no trained workforce, and no follow-up. It was an emotional decision masked as an entrepreneurial one. My grandmother, who had pushed so strongly for it, offered no explanation. And now, the debt was real. The money was gone. And the loan still had to be paid.

The pressure fell squarely on my mother’s shoulders.

She was scared—not just of financial ruin but of criminal charges. She would whisper to my father at night, “What if they arrest me? What if the police come? What will happen to our daughters?” Fear clung to her skin like sweat. She couldn’t eat properly. Couldn’t sleep. She would sometimes walk to the temple, sometimes sit alone on the roof, thinking.

She later told me, “There were moments I wished for a truck to hit me while crossing the road. Just so I wouldn’t have to face the next day.”

But then came a turning point.

She imagined—really visualized—what would happen if she were gone. If she died, who would look after us, her daughters? Who would make sure we were fed, educated, and safe? The answer was nobody. In that moment of deep pain, she chose strength. She decided to survive. Not for herself—but for us.

And she did what few people in that situation could have done.

She started a business.

With no experience. With no contacts. With almost no money. She borrowed ₹250 from her father—my maternal grandfather. Even he laughed at her in disbelief and said, “How will you start a business with just ₹250?” But she was determined.

She used that money to buy a small batch of textile pieces—dress materials, saris, and household cloth items. Then she went door to door in our neighborhood. She told women, “Pay me later. Just take it if you like it.” Her honesty, simplicity, and smile worked.

Within one week, she sold everything. And made double.

She reinvested that money. Bought more stock. Expanded her customer base. She started understanding the patterns—what sold quickly, what didn’t. She focused on quality, kept her prices reasonable, and always spoke with respect to her customers.

In just one and a half years, she managed to repay the full ₹20,000 loan to the bank.

It was a miracle. Not just because of the amount but because she had started with nothing. Her resilience, business sense, and courage turned into lifelines—not just for the family’s finances, but for her own sense of self-worth. She went from being a voiceless housewife to the woman who saved the family.

And yet, my father struggled to feel joy.

He saw her success. He admired her strength. But inside, he felt even more burdened. He had tried to do what he thought was right—support his mother, fulfill the dream of setting up a family business—but it had failed. And now, his wife had not only taken on the burden but had resolved it better than he ever could.

He didn’t show jealousy. But his silence grew heavier.

He continued his routine like a machine. Waking up at 5:30 am. Bathing, dressing, and leaving by 7 am. Riding his cycle for more than an hour to reach the station, working till 6 pm, and returning home with slumped shoulders. He was exhausted—not just physically but emotionally. His identity as the provider, the fixer, the man of the house—was shaken.

Sometimes, the body survives but the spirit breaks.

And so, his dependence on sleeping pills increased.

He still didn't take them every day, but more often now. Whenever anxiety crept in, whenever there was a family argument, or when he felt ignored, the pills offered peace. A few hours of quiet. A pause button on his restless thoughts.

My mother noticed it again.

She’d find the pills hidden under clothes, or in the pockets of his coat. She didn’t say much, but she began keeping an eye on his routines. My father was still functional, still affectionate to us, still working—but there was a numbness that had begun to settle in his eyes.

Despite all this, moments of love still shone through.

I remember my 10th birthday vividly.

That was the year my mother, using the profits from her textile business, decided to buy a scooter for my father. It was a second-hand scooter, but it was in good condition—a sleek green Bajaj Chetak. It changed everything for him. No more long cycle rides. No more exhaustion before work even started. It was a symbol of relief and mobility.

When he first sat on it, he smiled in a way I hadn’t seen in a long time.

He took me for a ride that same day, driving slowly, pointing out places in the market, buying me a small pastry from the bakery. That evening, we had samosas and jalebis to celebrate. My mother stood near the stove, smiling as she watched us from a distance. That one moment felt like peace.

But even then, beneath the surface, the sadness remained.

My father still hadn’t healed. His heart still carried the guilt of failure, the weight of unspoken battles, and the confusion of loving two women—his mother and his wife—who were constantly at odds. His need to make everyone happy had made him the most unhappy person in the house.

His life, to most outsiders, looked stable. A government job. A house. A family. But nobody saw the slow descent happening within. The mental health conversation was nonexistent at the time. There were no counselors, no interventions, no one asking, “How are you really feeling?”

And so, he kept it all inside.

It was the beginning of a long journey through depression—one that would only be recognized years later. But it all began here. With silence. With pills. With trying to hold up a world that was never designed to consider his emotional needs.

This chapter of his life was not marked by a single event, but by years of internal erosion.

And my mother—through her own struggles—stood by him. Quietly, fiercely, faithfully. She had saved the family from financial disaster. Now, she would try to save her husband from emotional collapse.

But neither of them could have predicted the storm still to come.