Chapter One: The Man Behind the Smile

Chapter One: The Man Behind the Smile

I live in the United Kingdom now, far away from the dusty streets and narrow lanes of my childhood. Life here moves differently—structured, organized, often quiet. I live with my two sons. My elder one, Tejas, is 14 now—a teenager full of questions and opinions. And then there's my younger one, who just turned two a few days ago, bringing chaos and joy in equal measure to our home. In between school runs, nappies, work, and the endless rhythm of motherhood, I find myself slipping into memories. They arrive quietly, sometimes as a scent, a tune, or a moment in silence when the world pauses just enough to let the past catch up.

One memory that comes to me often is from when Tejas was born. It was a time when life was tender, overwhelming, and raw with new beginnings. My father, who had always preferred early nights and a predictable routine, would stay awake late—sometimes till 11, even midnight—to help with the baby. He wasn’t a man known for staying up. In fact, by 9 p.m., he’d usually be fast asleep. But for Tejas, he changed. I remember him pacing the floor slowly with the baby in his arms, whispering lullabies under his breath, gently rubbing his back while Tejas cried through those colicky nights.

I used to watch him and feel surprised. Not because he was helping—but because of how much he was helping. I’d never seen him show this kind of softness, this kind of presence. His love for Tejas was quiet but immense, like a calm river carrying years of unseen emotion.

Tejas was blessed. I say this with my whole heart. Because even I hadn’t seen that version of my father before. Not for myself, not for my younger days, not even in his behavior with others. There was something about becoming a grandfather that softened his edges. But of course, life had already chiselled him so much by then.

To understand the man he became—to understand those late nights, that new-found tenderness—you have to go back. Long before I was born. Long before he became a father, or a grandfather. You have to look at the boy he once was. And the long, painful journey that slowly transformed him.

He was born in 1952, in the bustling heart of Delhi—India’s capital, alive with politics, history, and chaos. He was the eldest child in the family, and like many eldest sons, he was seen not just as a child, but as a hope, a promise. He was adorable, bright-eyed, and always curious. He spent much of his childhood raised by two strong women—his mother and his maternal grandmother.

His maternal grandmother, a widow, lived with them. She had lost her husband young but carried herself with grace and quiet authority. She had a special bond with my father—he was her world, and she pampered him endlessly. She would cook his favorite dishes, tell him stories of strength and survival, and shield him from many of life's cruelties. My grandmother—his mother—was a homemaker, practical and focused on her growing family. Together, these two women raised him with affection, discipline, and high expectations.

He was brilliant in school—sharp, curious, and always asking questions. His teachers noticed his potential early on, and he was known in his community for being intelligent and respectful. He dreamed like any other boy—of doing big things, starting something of his own, creating something new.

The family later moved from Delhi to a smaller town in Haryana called Yamuna Nagar. They bought a piece of land there, hoping to build small industries. The shift was more than just geographical—it marked a new chapter of dreams for the family. It also moved them further from extended family and their previous social circle, creating a bubble of pressure and expectation.

In Yamuna Nagar, my father continued to shine in school, but responsibilities started arriving faster than he was ready for. His maternal grandmother still pampered him, and in many ways, he remained a free bird. He had a deeply imaginative mind—always building ideas in his head, thinking of inventions or ways to start a business. That creative spark would never fully leave him, though it would later come out in strange, even self-destructive ways.

Then, in 1970, tragedy struck. His father passed away suddenly. My father was only 18. One moment, he was a teenager dreaming of possibilities; the next, he was the man of the house. In a culture that demands maturity overnight from eldest sons, he didn’t have time to grieve. His mother told him plainly—he needed to work. His younger brother and sister had to be sent to school, and soon, their marriages would have to be arranged. The weight of these responsibilities fell heavily on his young shoulders.

He gave up his dreams without resistance and joined a government job in the Northern Railways. It was stable, respectable, and enough to support the family. But it also began the slow suppression of the man he was meant to become. Somewhere, in those early years, a part of him quietly shut down. He wore his responsibilities like armor, but the boy inside never fully grew up.

In 1973, his marriage was arranged with my mother—a simple, soft-spoken woman from a nearby town. She was everything a traditional daughter-in-law was expected to be: obedient, caring, hardworking. But from the very beginning, the household wasn’t kind to her.

My grandmother—my father’s mother—started treating her with coldness and control. She would criticize her cooking, her behavior, her appearance. She accused her of being selfish, not giving enough to the family, even though my mother did everything—from cleaning to cooking for 10 people daily, from serving guests to managing endless household tasks. There were no weekends, no appreciation, and no voice.

My father witnessed it all. He saw the injustice. He knew it wasn’t right. But he didn’t speak.

Maybe he was afraid that standing up for his wife would mean betraying his mother. Maybe he feared being labeled a bad son, an ungrateful child. Maybe he thought silence was safer than confrontation. But that silence cost him—and us—more than he ever imagined.

That’s where the real journey began. A journey of emotional suppression, guilt, responsibility, and unspoken trauma. A journey that would later manifest in pills, insomnia, anxiety, delusions, and mental illness.

He started depending on sleeping pills during this time. At first, it was occasional. A way to unwind. Then it became regular. The pressure was too much, and sleep was his only escape. The pill he took was called Combust—it was easy to get then, and no one realized how dangerous it could be.

From the outside, everything still looked fine. He was working a government job, raising his siblings, providing for his wife and children. But inside, he was beginning to lose himself.

As a child, I didn’t see this. I just saw my father as someone quiet, disciplined, sometimes short-tempered, but always dependable. It wasn’t until much later—when I became a mother myself—that I began to connect the dots. That the man who rocked my baby to sleep was once a boy forced to silence his own pain.

And maybe that’s why he held Tejas so gently. Maybe that’s why he stayed awake long past his bedtime. Maybe some part of him wanted to be the comfort he never received, the voice he never had, the warmth he had to lock away for decades.

This book is about his journey—but it is also about mine. It’s about how mental health touches every corner of a family. It’s about generational silence, love that goes unspoken, and healing that can take decades. This is the story of my father—a man shaped by loss, weighed down by duty, but still capable of immense love.

And it all began with a smile that hid more than it showed.