I grew up in a home of modest means—not rich, not poor. Ours was an average economy, steady and self-sufficient. We didn’t struggle for survival, but we were no strangers to sacrifice. What truly set our family apart was my father’s unwavering generosity. Even with limited resources, he became a last resort for many in need—offering money for schoolbooks, assistance with weddings, or simply a kind word when it mattered most.
Though we weren’t wealthy, he never turned anyone away.
My father deeply believed in the Advaita philosophy—the oneness of all beings—and made it the bedrock of how he lived. In a society that still harbored untouchability, he allowed us to play freely with Harijan children, treating them with dignity as they worked in our courtyard. My mother often worried that his views might get us socially ostracized. But he would only smile, unfazed, firm in his convictions.
During the monsoons, the elevated paths through the paddy fields would vanish beneath rising waters. We’d wade through the flood, laughing and splashing, feeling the rain on our skin. It wasn’t just play—it was a lesson: sometimes the way forward disappears, and yet we must keep walking.
In the late 1970s, my father made a decision that shocked many: he sent my sister to a day-cum-boarding school in Thrissur, 80 kilometers away. A communist sending his daughter to a school run by Hindu nuns—where scriptures were taught—seemed paradoxical. But he had his reasons. He admired Swami Vivekananda not just as a philosopher, but as a reformer. To him, knowing your religion gave you the power to question it and understand it with clarity.
I didn’t attend the same school, but had my own path. My hostel days were lonely; regret crept in quickly, and I even tried to run away once. But looking back, those were the years that built my resilience. Slowly, I began to realize: my father saw something in me I hadn’t yet seen in myself.
His parenting style toward me and my sister was distinctly different. She received more affection, while I was pushed toward independence. It hurt, and one day, I confronted him:
“Who will be there for me? Don’t you care?”
He answered calmly, “You will stand alone. I know you are strong enough.”
At the time, I didn’t understand. But life would teach me.
Years later, when my niece was diagnosed with ovarian cancer, our lives paused. She stayed with me for three months during treatment at TATA Memorial Hospital. I sat for hours outside the palliative care unit, watching others weep, praying with every ounce of my being. Through those moments, I learned one of life’s clearest truths: nothing is more sacred than life itself.
My path has not been smooth—through a painful marriage, a difficult divorce, and nights spent in a psychiatry ward beside my son, waiting for clarity to return to his mind. In those moments of exhaustion and helplessness, I’d often remember my father’s voice, as if he were still with me, whispering that destiny does not bend to our plans—it reveals its purpose only in time.
He would often tell stories—of Vararuchi, of Oedipus—using them to underline the role of fate. Once I asked him, “If destiny controls everything, why should we even try?”
His reply was gentle but firm:
“Even our efforts are part of destiny.”
He’d quote the Bhagavad Gita, pointing to Arjuna’s crisis on the battlefield. “If Arjuna had turned away, destiny would have still brought him back to his duty. Even reluctance has a place in the plan.”
Today, I finally see the wisdom he carried. Life doesn’t come with clear answers. But some lessons, when taught quietly and lived fully, take root in the soul.
I wasn’t raised to be protected.
I was raised to persevere.
I was raised to walk through floodwaters—and to keep walking, even when the path disappears.