Chapter Two: The Weight of Responsibility

 

Chapter Two: The Weight of Responsibility

There’s a heaviness that comes with being the eldest son in a traditional Indian household. It’s not just a title—it’s a lifelong role, a quiet expectation, a burden carried in the soul. My father bore that weight with a calm face, but behind his silence were dreams unfulfilled, emotions unspoken, and wounds that would take a lifetime to heal.

He was barely eighteen when life hit him like a storm.

Until then, my father was a dreamer. He had ideas bigger than the sky and a heart full of ambition. He wanted to build something of his own—maybe a business, or an innovation in science, or perhaps even a career in writing or public service. He loved learning, thinking, and exploring. Raised by two strong women—his mother and his maternal grandmother—he had always been given love, and that love had grown into dreams.

But those dreams shattered suddenly.

In 1970, his father—my grandfather—passed away. It was a turning point, not just for the family, but for him as a person. In one moment, he went from being a curious teenager to the head of the household. No time to grieve. No time to ask why me? His mother stood in front of him with tear-stained eyes and said, “You have to take care of your brother and sister now. They’re still in school. We need income. We need support.”

And so, he gave up his future in exchange for their present.

He joined a job in Northern Railways—a government position that was considered stable and secure. But he hated it. It wasn't the work that bothered him—it was the fact that it wasn’t his choice. The job represented the death of his dreams. Every day he showed up, every station he passed, every train that rolled in and out—reminded him of a life that could have been, and the life he now lived instead.

But he didn’t complain. Not once.

He carried the responsibility like armor, shielding his mother and siblings from the harshness of life, even if it meant exposing himself to it completely. His salary went to school fees, to groceries, to house repairs. He asked for nothing. He expected nothing. He simply gave.

In 1973, a new chapter began. His marriage was arranged to my mother—a soft-spoken, kind-hearted woman. She was raised with traditional values and taught to serve her husband and his family with devotion. And she did. Quietly, without protest. She accepted every responsibility handed to her—from cooking for ten people to cleaning every corner of the house to welcoming guests with folded hands and a gentle smile.

But my grandmother—my father's mother—was not pleased.

From the very beginning, she disliked the attention and love my father gave to his wife. For her, a son was not just a child—he was property. Someone who belonged to her first, above all else. So when she saw him smiling more, talking softly, spending moments with his wife, jealousy crept into her heart.

She began sowing seeds of discord.

She would accuse my mother of stealing items from the kitchen—rice, lentils, even spices—and claim she was sending them to her own parents. She would whisper in my father’s ears, “She’s not loyal. She’s trying to take you away from your family. She doesn’t care about your brother and sister.”

And my father, torn between two worlds, said nothing.

He loved his wife—there was no doubt. But his loyalty to his mother was like religion. He had already sacrificed so much for her approval, for the family’s survival, that speaking up felt like betrayal. So he chose silence again. He endured the harsh words, the daily complaints, the small humiliations hurled at the woman he loved—and he said nothing.

It wasn’t long before my grandmother started saying it openly—she wanted him to divorce my mother.

At first, she used subtle pressure. She would stop eating the food my mother cooked. She would complain of headaches and pretend to be sick when she saw them talking. But when these tactics didn’t work, she became more direct. “She’s not giving you a child,” she said. “It’s been five years. What’s the point of keeping her?”

Yes, after five long years of marriage, my parents still had no children. In those days, in small-town India, infertility was not a private matter—it was a weapon. And in most cases, it was the woman who was blamed, no matter the truth. My mother cried silently each night. She prayed, fasted, and followed every remedy suggested to her—yet the accusations continued.

My father stood by her. Through every prayer, every doctor's visit, every insult—he stood silently but firmly by her side.

And then, one day, their prayers were answered. A daughter was born.

They named her Renu.

The house was filled with celebration, but it was tainted. Because even in the joy of her birth, there was disappointment. “It’s just a girl,” some relatives said. “Next time, maybe a boy.” The words were like sharp needles dressed in sugar. But my father didn’t care. For him, Renu was a miracle. He held her like the most precious thing he had ever seen. And in those early months, he became the father he never had a chance to be to himself—a father who gave love without condition.

But his mother noticed this too. And her affection for him—already chipped by years of resentment—now turned to coldness.

She had hoped that the birth of a child would distract him, make him less attached to his wife. But it only made the bond stronger. He loved both of them fiercely. He began spending more time with Renu, playing with her after work, helping my mother put her to sleep. It was as if a part of him had finally come back to life.

And so, in her frustration, my grandmother began targeting him too.

She started accusing him of being “lost,” of “forgetting his duty to the family.” She said he gave all his time and attention  to his wife and child and kept nothing for the house. But in truth, he gave everything to the family. He handed over his full salary to his mother and kept not a rupee for himself—or for his wife. The little things he bought for Renu were from borrowed money or saved coins. No one noticed that the man providing for everyone was slowly breaking from within.

There was one more test waiting.

Years later, my father’s younger sister—the same one often insulted my mother —fell in love with someone outside their caste. The man was much older and came from a background considered “unacceptable” by the family. The match was unthinkable in traditional circles. But my father’s sister insisted, saying she would marry no one else.

And here’s where things took a strange turn.

My grandmother, who had once treated my mother so badly, suddenly became kind and sweet toward her. She praised her cooking. She smiled and asked about her health. My mother, confused by the change, felt something was off.

Soon, the truth emerged.

My grandmother’s sudden affection wasn’t real—it was a strategy. She needed my mother to convince my father to agree to the marriage of her sister with that man. She knew my father wouldn’t agree easily. He believed in family values, in maintaining tradition, and he was not comfortable with the match. But if his wife could influence him, perhaps he would bend.

This manipulation cut deep.

After everything my father had endured—sacrificing his dreams, staying silent through injustice, loving his family despite their cruelty—he now saw his mother using the one thing that gave him peace—his relationship with his wife—as a tool to achieve her goal.

He didn’t say much. He never did. But something changed in him again. Maybe a final thread broke.

And that thread, once gone, opened the door to deeper silence, deeper sadness—and the beginning of something none of us truly understood at the time: the slow, invisible descent into depression.