The call with my mother just ended, and true to form, she was scolding me for skipping breakfast again. I could have lied, sure, but sometimes I enjoy irritating her. Besides, she needs to know the mess hall breakfast is so abysmal that no one is willing to sacrifice their sleep for it.
It's made me notice something about my sisters and me: we never video call our family the way other people do. Sometimes, I'll feel a pang of missing my mother, but I never let the feeling settle long enough to confidently say, "Yes, I miss her." I don't know why. I call her at regular intervals, but a video call? Never. And I've never seen my sisters do it, either.
Does that mean we don't love our family? Of course, we do. But I feel that, unlike other children, my sisters and I are somewhat detached in this matter. And I often wonder why.
I believe the answer lies in our upbringing—an upbringing I now consider my greatest asset.
All three of us were raised by parents who were unconventionally cool but never pampered us. As the only son, I never received the special treatment often reserved for boys in such families. My parents were always more practical than emotional, straightforward about which demands would be met. The rules were the same for me as for my sisters—perhaps even stricter, especially when it came to my behaviour and how I spoke. It still shocks me when I visit homes with small kids and see the way they misbehave without consequence. My sisters and I will exchange glances, wondering how their parents aren't slapping them on the spot, because ours wouldn't have hesitated for a second. My parents were incredibly particular about manners, respect for elders, and how we presented ourselves.
There were no special privileges. If I didn't like the dinner my mother cooked for everyone, she wouldn't make me a separate dish. You either ate what was served, or you figured it out for yourself.
You might be getting the impression that my parents were overly strict, but they weren't. They are very cool; these were just some areas where they refused to compromise. In fact, things that my friends considered cool were just normal in our house. I had this flex that my father was so chill he'd let me play outside even during exams. I had many female friends in school who were on my WhatsApp and called frequently. Until 10th grade, I didn't have my own phone, so all those calls and texts came to my mother's mobile. Not once did she ever question me about who I was talking to. Who is this girl? Why does she call you? Instead, she'd simply tell me, "Your friend called, you should call her back." My father and I shared the same WhatsApp account for two or three years, but he never opened my chats. Never.
When my friends would come calling for me early in the morning, sometimes my father would be the one to open the gate. None of them were ever scared, thinking, "Oh shit, uncle's going to yell at us." Instead, they would ask him to wake me up, and he would. If anyone else's father appeared at the door, we would all scatter, expecting a lecture. Only with me were my friends confident enough to ask my dad to rouse me from sleep. My parents rarely vetoed our plans for fun; they'd listen, trust my judgment, and usually approve. I made sure never to misuse that trust, so I deserve some credit, too.
Overall, there were no additional privileges. My sisters and I were raised with the right amount of love and care, just without the pampering or emotional coddling that might have made us more outwardly affectionate. We weren't the kids who would run to our mother for a hug after a bad day. I can't recall a single time I did that, nor have I seen my sisters do it. It's not that our mother would have pushed us away; it's just that we weren't wired to seek comfort that way.
And that is why, despite all the love our parents have for us and all the love we have for them, we've never been good at showing it through our actions. Both sides are pretty bad at expressing it. Lol.
Today, I'll talk about them. My parents.
Starting with my mother.
Very few people know this, but my birth wasn't straightforward. The doctors initially tried for a normal delivery, but due to complications, they had to perform surgery. Afterwards, my mother's health deteriorated badly. She became extremely ill and weak, and because of her condition, she couldn't breastfeed me. I was raised on regular milk from the milkman. And look at me—I turned out just fine, physically as normal as anyone can be.
Touch wood.
But that's not the sad part. The sad part is that ever since I was born, my mother has battled lifelong medical issues. It isn't a single disease but something more complicated and hard to explain. She suffers from a severe hormonal imbalance, and it's difficult to describe how severe it can be. On a fine Monday, she can be cheerful and healthy, but by Tuesday, she could be so ill and weak that she can't gather the strength to walk.
Our mood at home is often dictated by her health. If we wake up and see her bustling around, we know it's a good day. But on the days we wake up and see her struggling to walk, her face dull with pain, we know it's not. This problem has shrunk her world. She doesn't have a social circle like other mothers, avoids socializing, and prefers to stay home. Twice a year since my birth, my father takes her to Lucknow for a regular check-up, just to make sure everything is stable.
When I see her struggling on a bad day, I can't help but feel that, somehow, this is because of me. Here I am, perfectly fit, while the one who gave me birth has been suffering ever since. It's why, more than just loving her, I feel I owe her my life.
My mother was a teacher before she got married, working to support her retired father while also studying for her own graduation. My aunt told me how social and loved she was. I always wonder what her life would have been like without these health issues. She's an educated woman; she would have surely been confident and social, unlike the person she is today. She tells me she used to love visiting new places, but I can hardly remember our family ever going on a vacation. You can't take the risk; even if she's been fine all week, you never know what the next day will bring.
So yes, I carry this guilt. Not that I wish I hadn't been born—I'm not that dramatic—but I do feel responsible for her problems.
This brings me back to what I said earlier, about why we three siblings weren't pampered or emotionally attended enough. My mother was never well enough to manage all the household chores, cook delicious meals, and then also have the emotional energy to entertain us. You can't expect a person who is fighting just to get through the day to soothe and coddle you. Over the years, her struggles have weakened her willpower, and she has become more emotional.
But when I see how she still managed to raise three capable children with the right values, I have massive respect for her. Watching her fight through her illness every single day has made me mentally strong. The way she ignores her health issues and just gets on with her day taught me a valuable lesson: carry on, don't complain, and get the work done. That's why we never ran to her for comfort after a bad day; we learned from her example that no problem is too big to overcome without making a fuss.
A few weeks ago, I was having dinner at my sisters' place. (Yes, I mostly go there for the food. Lol.) They learned that Mumma had come with Papa to the station to see me off when I left for college. They were shocked and jealous. "Why not for us? After all, you're her only boy child!" they exclaimed. I lied and defended myself, saying she was just feeling fine that day and we'd arranged a cab, so it was convenient. The truth is, she came because she wanted to.
And I can never forget what happened when the train arrived. I was praying it wouldn't happen, because if it did, I knew I wouldn't be able to leave. But it happened. She started crying. I somehow managed to calm her down, gave her a hug, and reminded her I'd be back in a month for the Diwali holidays.
As the train pulled away, I sat by the window, watching the night slowly overtake the evening. Her tears disturbed me so much that I couldn't think of anything else for the entire 14-hour journey. I knew that would be the consequence, which is why I hadn't wanted it to happen. I don't think I'll ever get that image out of my mind: the train leaving the station, my parents on the platform waving goodbye, and my mother's eyes still wet with tears.
That's when I truly felt that adulting is tough.
Anyway, it's been about two months here at college, and I've settled in well. I get homesick sometimes, but that's normal. I call my mother once or twice a week. It's funny—I'm usually a quiet person and a good listener, but on the phone with her, I'm the one who does all the talking. I tell her about getting selected for a club or scoring well on an exam. The attention she gives my chatter is incomparable. I don't think anyone else could listen so intently to topics that are, frankly, pretty bland.
Since I don't have time to call her daily, I've found a unique way to keep her in my loop. I send her voice notes on WhatsApp about my day: that I skipped breakfast, that I woke up at 8:30 for a 9:00 AM class, that I bought bananas on my way back from college. Sometimes my sister and I will just send a random voice note in the morning saying, "I woke up." That's it. Lol.
So this is the new normal. I don't love it, but it is what it is. That's a little about my mother. I could go on and on, but I have to stop somewhere.
Now, it's time to talk about the person I respect most in this world.
I don't know much about my father's childhood, but I know he came from a lower-middle-class family without generational wealth. He had to manage everything himself, completing his graduation and working various jobs until he landed a stable position as a government employee with the railways.
We are a nucleus family of five—my parents, my two elder sisters, and me—and Papa is the sole breadwinner. All three of us passed out from reputed convent schools and are now in colleges in different cities. I sometimes wonder, how does this man manage it all? I don't think I could ever do the math to make it possible.
When I look at my sisters and myself today, I feel so lucky to be his children. If you asked any of us if there was something we ever needed but didn't get because it was too expensive, the answer would be a simple no. From expensive cricket bats to smartphones, tablets to the latest laptops, smartwatches to stylish sneakers, every single luxury I've ever craved has been provided. Honestly, today there is no material thing I feel I'm lacking to live life comfortably. In fact, I'm writing this on my sister's old laptop, but by the next chapter, I'll have a brand new one.
A constant question crosses my mind: how? How does he provide all this luxury for three grown children?
My father is a workaholic. He can't stand being idle. I think he always wanted to build his own business—he never said it, but he has a great business mind. To fulfill that desire, he also works part-time as a senior advisor for a dropshipping company. So yes, he works two jobs. His typical day starts at 5 AM at his railway workshop and ends around 6 PM. After a quick cup of tea, he leaves again for his advisor work. You will never find my father at home on a Sunday; his weekends are filled with board meetings and advisor discussions.
The consequence is that we hardly get to spend time with him. But what do we get in return? Every luxury of life. The luxury of ordering from Zomato and Swiggy, of using cabs, of owning expensive gadgets. The luxury of watching cricket on a big HD TV and our favourite shows on Prime and Netflix.
My father is also a very cool, fun-loving person. My biggest flex among my friends has always been my dad. He's so chill that I sometimes get confused: is he really that laid-back, or is he just too busy to argue? Whenever I'd ask for permission for something, he'd continue with his work, listen, and just say, "Okay." I think he just wanted to save himself the time and energy of asking a hundred questions. Lol.
Usually, as boys enter their teenage years, differences arise with their fathers over ego or mindset. Thankfully, that never happened with me. I matured pretty early, but the main reason is that I'm a boring person. I don't have any interest in cars, bikes, watches, shoes or fancy clothes like many boys do. My only obsession is sports—playing them and watching them. My father and I never clashed because he always respected that obsession.
Take cricket, for instance.
He knew I loved the game—I was breaking tubelights at home all day—so he enrolled me in a cricket academy when I was 13. He knew he'd have to be the one to drop me off every day, but he did it anyway. My academy was eight kilometres from home, in the opposite direction of his workshop, yet he would drop me off in the terrifying June summer heat and then drive all the way back. Then he'd pick me up in the evening, all on his bike—we don't have a car. My cricket love turned into an obsession, and the expenses climbed with it. I constantly needed a new bat, kit, or shoes, and he never said no. Who does that, with a family of five to feed and educate? I mean he could have just said we can't have all these additional expenses. But he didn't.
The ending here isn't a happy one. My father knew what cricket meant to me, and he did more than he could afford to let me live my obsession. But after I passed my 10th-grade exams with good results, it was time to make a decision: take an easier subject and keep playing, or give up cricket for math. He never posed the question. I did it myself. I didn't ask him if I could pursue a career in cricket because I knew the answer would be no, and I also knew that asking me to give it up wouldn't be easy for him. So I made the tough choice for him. I chose math, packed my cricket kit, and locked it in the storeroom.
I expected him to say something like, "Look, now you have to focus on your studies," but he never did. He had no idea how to say "cricket" and "give up" in the same sentence to me. When we went to the school for my 11th-grade admission, he spotted a bowling machine on the field. I hadn't even seen it. He asked the principal about the school's cricket team. On the way home, he looked at me and smiled, and in that moment, I knew how much he cared about my obsession. I told him I wouldn't have time for practice because of my classes and that I'd moved my kit to the storeroom. He immediately asked why, saying I could at least play on Sundays. At that moment, my respect for him defeated my obsession for sports. I said no, I needed that time for self-study.
And just like that, I willingly gave up cricket professionally.
Throughout my exam preparations, he never once put any pressure on me. He never asked about test scores or stopped me from watching a match. His philosophy was that I should study, but also do things that kept my mind in a happy space.
My father is a very inexpressive man. He never lets his own aspirations show. But once, his guard slipped. He told my sister, who was preparing for medical exams, and me that he would take a flight to drop her off at her medical college. Similarly, for me, he would board a flight when he came to drop me off at my IIT. My sister and I looked at each other and smiled. It was so unusual for him to share a personal dream. He never burdened us with his expectations because he knew it would only add pressure.
And this is my and my sister's biggest failure. I don't feel like a failure because I didn't get into an IIT. For me IIT was never an obsession. I feel like a failure because all my life, that man put every luxury on a platter for me, and I couldn't fulfill his one small dream of taking a flight to drop me off at an IIT. He worked so hard, and we three children never gave him a single thing he could be truly proud of, something he could flex in society. That is, and always will be, a thing of shame for me. What hurts more is that he never complained. He never once said we disappointed him. Never.
Anyway, my equation with him has changed over time. He jokes with me, we discuss politics, and we team up to irritate my sisters. Now that I'm grown up and less likely to get a slap, I sometimes talk tough with him, especially when he isn't taking his health seriously. I like being the father of my father sometimes. Lol.
But like many fathers, whenever he has something important to say, he says it through my mother.
Just after my exams got over, I announced I was joining a gym. The next day, I didn't go. That evening, Mumma told me, "Papa was asking why you didn't go to the gym today." He could have asked me directly. But he chose to ask it through mumma. She told me that he was happy about my decision of joining the gym and was worried I'd already dropped the plan. Just recently, I called her, excited that I'd been selected for two coding clubs. Then I heard him in the background. She said, "Papa is asking why you didn't join the cricket club." I replied smiling, that it's recruitment process hasn't yet started but I will join once it opens. Sitting that far also, he was not interested in knowing about my academics, but was interested in knowing if I am doing things that made me happy or not. He'll never take the phone himself, always throwing his concerns from the sidelines, relayed through my mother's voice.
But it's my fault too. I call Mumma to share stories and him only when I need help. I'm trying to extend my calls with him from a few seconds to at least two minutes, but it will take time. I've thought about calling him one day just to tell him about my tennis practice. Let's see how he responds.
I love my parents, and I am incredibly grateful for everything they do for me. I have absolutely zero complaints. A few years ago, a younger me might have had different thoughts. But now that I'm getting a sense of adulthood, now that I know how much a dozen bananas cost, I've realized that what they did for me all these years is nothing short of a miracle. To have your every desire fulfilled is not a privilege everyone gets. I feel blessed to have them. They've given me everything one could ask for, from manners to materialistic comforts, from care to freedom, everything.
As a kid, my future dream changed every other day. I wanted to be a pilot, then an engineer, then a doctor. Now, at this junction between teenage years and adulthood, I no longer have a dream profession. My only dream in life now is to give my parents every luxury and comfort they deserve. I just want to start earning as soon as possible so I can make sure they take a two-hour flight to Lucknow for Mumma's annual check-up, not a twelve-hour train. So they can travel in a decent car with a driver and stay in a five-star hotel.
It's funny, I started this chapter wondering why my family doesn't show love in the usual ways. We aren't good with hugs or emotional phone calls, but now I realize we have our own language. Theirs was the language of sacrifice—of working two jobs and enduring pain to give us everything. They gave me the luxury of a worry free enjoyable childhood. Now, my only ambition is to answer them in that same tongue. Because a love like that isn't just a gift; it's a debt. My "I love you" won't be spoken on a video call; it will be delivered with a boarding pass. And I plan on spending the rest of my life repaying that debt, with interest.