Prologue

 I remembered memories from very young in my life, when I was 4 years old and my brother was born, a hawan took place for shataayu and well-being of the male child. It was one of the glorious days. I remembered when my mother was in a nursing home, my nani came and she’d give instructions to everyone, controlling the situation and was happy her daughter birthed a boy. A few months after, a feud took place between my grandmother and my mother, while my mother instructed me to not talk to my father and grandmother. One of the first ploys of my life, I had gone through.

 

My father bought Amul chocolates to calm down the situation, pretending things are okay, but it was only the beginning of something he'd never thought would pass down to his generations. Had he taken steps to prevent them, life would never have been the same.

In this current society, women are empowered with education, laws, status, position, etc. But what about those who are only willing to exploit? Next I remembered my life from my early school days, my appearance of a dusky child would outgrow my brilliance at school. My marks of 98% in the First grade were compared to 89% with a cousin who was fair looking and seeking brilliance. Yet, it never bothered me, I was immersed in a world of mine, where music, art, dance were the soul of my existence, my schooling had been prominent. 

My school days were mostly routine based, so the hassles of family never bothered me. However, the weekends and holidays were unbearable, as both me and my siblings had to experience the wrath of our mother, who whined about how she was overburdened with family duties, and no one helped her with household chores, yet we had a maid to do the bigger chores and assistant like myself to help.

 Our times from Jaipur were peaceful & memorable, as living in a big city and an independent villa with a garden in front and backyard, she would show off to her siblings. But when times change, the reality of people appears like mist getting cleared after a fresh rainfall. 

Moving back to our hometown was the ultimate defeat for her, a humiliation she couldn't swallow. She was, and always would be, a girl from South Delhi. She had never actually graduated into the idea of nurturing a family; as for her her unfulfilled dreams overshadowed her marriage and family. She was married off in a hurry, because her own family couldn't bear the perceived burden and vulnerability of her youth.

To her, our hometown was a step backward, a place of shame. She despised living in a society where neighbors were humble and stood by each other in times of crisis. She never saw the beauty in it. To her, community and mutual dependence were signs of weakness, a quality, perhaps, that only the elite mistake for poverty. Though the community where she lived before marriage wasn’t an elite one. 

As the years passed, we began to grow up, and the seeds of self-reliance were ironically planted by my mother, though not out of wisdom, but out of competition. Seeing her own sister-in-law earning handsomely as a Montessori teacher, she demanded to finish the graduation she had abandoned mid-way. She had set her sights on a Bachelor of Library Science, driven by the unresearched, naive belief that it was the ultimate, effortless "sitting job".

My father, a naive man desperate to shove off the relentless family conflicts, readily agreed. He welcomed anything that would keep her occupied. And so, she chased degrees, eventually completing her Masters and an M.Phil. By the time I finished the eighth grade, she was buried in her dissertation, leaving a quiet vacuum at home.

Those were the days we would come home from school to find our grandmother waiting with a warm lunch. She was growing older, her body slowing down from diabetes, and on some days, my siblings and I simply managed on our own. Twice a year, my grandmother would travel to visit her siblings and her ninety-year-old mother. Those weeks were a strange oasis of peace; without my grandmother there, my mother had no one left to fight, and her wrath would temporarily subside. She enjoyed a household free of control, but during those times, I missed my grandmother terribly.

She was my first instructor of dharma. Long before the world could confuse me, she gave me the foundational teachings of our kula, our gotra, our history, and the exact status we held in society, a sacred inheritance that modern families so often lose. I spent hours sitting by her single bed, right next to her temple altar, reading scriptures and listening to the steady, comforting rhythm of her reciting the Hanuman Chalisa and her daily mantras. 

I never understood how someone’s religious beliefs could be weaponized to harm another. My mother was the product of a cult-like faith passed down by her family, yet she never seemed to apply a single virtue taught in those satsangs. To her, it was nothing more than an hour’s performance. I watched her weep as tears flowed down her face, listening to the harsh, booming mandates of the guru she followed. But the moment she crossed our threshold, the spell broke. When the person at home remains entirely unchanged, the satsang has failed.

Instead of peace, she brought home further material expectations after getting influenced by women outside. She envied my grandmother’s quiet respect in society, her effortless status, and the pure devotion of her prayers. In her frustration, my mother would lash out, branding my grandmother’s genuine rituals as andhavishwas, blind superstition while whining throughout the day. It was a bizarre, tragic paradox: my grandmother remained as unbothered and dignified as an elephant, while my mother’s fury snapped harmlessly, yet loudly, at her heels.

The absolute breaking point arrived on a day I will never forget- the day the thin veneer of domestic peace was violently ripped away. My mother completely lost control. 

In a frenzy where she said, “Sara din padi rehti hain bistar pe, na koi kaam, na kuch. Hum marte rehte hain bachhe bhi dekhen, ghar bhi smabhalen sab karein aur inke taane sunein.”

My grandmother lashed out in punjabi & said,”Tu keeda kam kardi ha, tere bacche rulde paye ne, tenu sab ditta asi, tennu zara vi shukar nhi hai. Mera puttar seeda sadha hai, usle vi kuch nhi krdi. Ghar da kaam te naukrani lagi hui ha, tenu kede kaam karne painde ne. Te jara je kaam chutti wale din aa jayein, te tenu aag lag jaundi hai. Kitti party te, te tere chai nashte de program te tennu kuch ni honda, ghare aande hi tenu yaad aanda hai tere te kinna burden hai.”

She couldn't take it and began thrashing my elderly grandmother with a broomstick, pulling her hair, deliberately striking at a woman’s ultimate dignity. Terrified, my grandmother managed to flee the house, crying out to the neighbors to save her life.

My siblings were too young to remember the terror, but it is burned into my soul. We were frozen, children reduced to mere spectators of a profound adharma we had no power to stop. To this day, the guilt lingers: I wish we had intervened. I wish my father had taken a stand.

Instead, the aftermath was a masterclass in calculated deception. When an FIR was finally lodged, my mother abruptly packed us up and dragged us to my nani’s house. She looked frail and scared, after realising what she’d done. She narrated the whole incident to my nani. They took 2 hours to discuss the whole incident.  

After coming out, with cold deliberation, she repeatedly slammed her own hands and arms against the heavy wooden doors and walls, intentionally bruising herself. I was shoved to the bedroom by nani. She needed a counter-narrative; she needed to play the victim to escape the law.

But the legal system back then was unequipped and indifferent to domestic horrors. When the policemen arrived at our home, they didn't offer justice, they offered platitudes. They consoled my father and grandmother, whispering that a public legal battle would bring irreparable shame to our family's name in society. Swayed by the fear of scandal, my father withdrew the complaint. It was a monumental, catastrophic mistake. By burying the crime to save our reputation, they handed her ultimate victory: no consequence. 

That was the day I lost my faith in both the system and society. It crushed something vital at the very core of my being. As a teenager forced to witness a deep, systemic rot within the one institution meant to protect me, I made a silent pledge: Marriage is not for me. I refused to ever let myself be trapped in a cycle like this. My sole, desperate goal became to launch myself into a career as early as possible and escape her shadow forever.

But destiny had a different timeline. Such vocal assaults between my mother & grandmother continued even after my grandmother’s kidneys failed, and her dialysis took a toll on her body for 3 years. She passed away in a hospital bed, physically isolated from the chaos that had defined her final years. There was a tragic mercy in her end; before she closed her eyes, dementia had wiped her slate clean. She had forgotten who her son was, and she had forgotten the woman who had terrorized her. She died in a peace she couldn't find in life. I never got to say goodbye. The last time I saw her, she was still fighting, alive and alert.

Just a year after my grandmother passed away, my father was diagnosed with the exact same kidney failure. He was dying before my eyes. The dreams I had of moving away, of building an independent life far from the wreckage of my childhood, evaporated in an instant. I had no choice. As the eldest child, the mantle of responsibility was thrust onto my young shoulders. I had to step into the arena, not as a spectator anymore, but as the shield for what remained of the family.