Sadhika Pant
December 08 2024
Just the other day, I ran into an acquaintance who gave me a disturbing bit of news. He was an auto rickshaw driver, a man I’d known for nearly a year and often relied upon to drive me places. It had been a couple of weeks since we’d last met, so I asked after him, after his life and his family. His wife had been expecting their second child, due last month, so I inquired about the baby. He told me that his child had not lived for more than a few days after being born. I stood there, listening, as he told me of hospital runs that blurred into sleepless nights, of a wife worn thin with grief and sickness, and of money—more money than a man of his means could fathom—poured out in the hope of saving his baby. Three lakh rupees, gone, and still, the child was gone too. And yet, as he spoke, there was no quiver in his voice, no tears in his eyes. His calmness wasn’t the absence of pain but the bearing of it. Before he left, he asked me how I was, as if his world hadn’t crumbled just weeks before. I told him, but the words felt hollow against the weight of his own. Then he nodded, the way people do when there’s nothing more to say, and drove away. His words got me thinking. There is great strength that goes unnoticed in ordinary people. The majority of people carry burdens of almost unfathomable weight — a serious illness, the death of a family member, financial ruin looming on the horizon, a failed marriage, or the dread of unpaid bills and their kid’s school fees. And yet, despite the privations and indignities that life inflicts, they conduct themselves with remarkable steadiness. It is one of the more curious and admirable features of human nature that most people, even while labouring under such private anguish, maintain an outward appearance of civility. They do not scream, wail, or weep openly in public. They do not disturb the equilibrium of the social order with dramatic displays of their misfortune. Instead, they they engage with life’s demands with quiet resolve, exchanging pleasantries, offering polite nods, and maintaining a semblance of normalcy. They set aside their sorrows to attend to the tasks that keep the machinery of society running—fixing telephone poles, scrubbing public washrooms, repairing railway tracks, mending leaky taps in strangers’ homes, or collecting trash each morning with clockwork regularity. These are jobs that demand focus and physical labour, performed with a diligence that borders on perfection, so that the world as we know it continues to function smoothly. It is this restraint—this unspoken agreement to confine personal suffering to the private realm—that lends society its predictability, its reassuring sense of order. Without it, the world would be a far more chaotic and less bearable place. In stark contrast to this admirable restraint is the growing phenomenon of what Theodore Dalrymple famously calls “emotional incontinence”— a condition now celebrated in certain quarters as the pinnacle of authenticity. To many, the notion that one might temper or suppress one’s emotions, even momentarily, is seen as a betrayal of the self, a kind of moral cowardice. This modern creed insists that every feeling, no matter how trivial, base, or disruptive, must be expressed in its rawest form, regardless of time, place, or audience. To do otherwise is, it is claimed, to deny one’s own truth. This ideology has turned emotional exhibitionism into a virtue, casting those who keep their feelings private as inauthentic or, worse, repressed. The notion that restraint might be an act of generosity—a way of sparing others from the weight of one’s troubles—is dismissed as old-fashioned, even harmful. It is a peculiar kind of narcissism masquerading as courage. This relentless insistence on self-expression introduces an element of unpredictability into daily life, as one can no longer rely on the tacit agreement that public spaces are shared, not claimed by any individual’s private drama. The man who wails in the street because his feelings compel him to do so has made a public spectacle of what ought to be private, imposing his anguish upon strangers who neither caused it nor can alleviate it. The colleague who erupts in anger over a minor slight demands that everyone else accommodate their outburst, as if their emotional immediacy were a trump card against reason and decorum. The resulting chaos erode the boundaries that make civilised life possible. Worse still, this celebration of emotional abandon undermines the very essence of maturity. The ability to regulate one's emotions, to choose when and where they are expressed, is not a betrayal of authenticity but a mark of self-mastery and respect for others. It acknowledges the reality that life is shared and that one’s emotional weather should not dominate the horizon of everyone around them. To lose this understanding is to regress into a state of infantile self-absorption, where every whim and impulse is indulged without regard for consequence. This indulgence fosters a sense of entitlement that borders on the tyrannical. Those who refuse to regulate their emotions often expect the world to conform to their whims, mistaking their unfiltered outbursts for strength of character rather than an abdication of personal responsibility. Yet such expectations are not sustainable. A society cannot function if its members are perpetually walking on eggshells, fearful of provoking the next unrestrained display. Nor should it have to. The onus is on the individual to adjust to the social order, not the other way around. This kind of unhinged behavior, of course, is not without its consequences. One may indulge in the full expression of every impulse and emotion, but such indulgence comes at a cost—primarily borne by the individual who practices it. If one refuses to regulate one’s emotions, moderate one’s impulses or present a well-adjusted front, it is hardly surprising when others, especially those who are productive and conscientious, choose to distance themselves. People may be reluctant to hire someone whose emotional volatility disrupts the workplace or whose inability to contain their impulses renders them unreliable. Homeowners may hesitate to rent their property to someone who exhibits no regard for the peace and stability of their neighbours. Even friendships can wear thin when one party doesn’t care in the least for social harmony. The truth is, emotional incontinence breeds a form of social isolation. People may tolerate such behavior out of necessity, but they will not embrace it. In the end, society, for its part, moves on without these people. Our burdens, it seems, are thrust on us. Yet, the one freedom left to us—the singular choice that marks the civilised man—is how we choose to bear them. Image source: Christ Carrying the Cross by El Greco.
Sadhika Pant
August 08 2024
There is a burning question in the hearts of many young women I know. Most of these women are of my age, approaching their 30s. Some are older, some are younger. Not too long ago, the same question nearly scorched a hole in my heart too. The question being, “Why can’t my father let me provide for him?” Many times, I've seen my friends wrestle with this question, each in their own way, shaped by the cards life dealt them. Some have lost their mothers, leaving fathers to navigate a lonely old age. Others, though both parents still live, fight against financial problems. There are those without brothers, no one to share the burden of caring for ageing parents. Some are only daughters, without siblings to take turns with, while others are the eldest daughters of their families. They see it as a raw deal, the way their father won't think twice about taking money from his sons but hesitates when it comes to his daughters. To the daughters, this seems unfair. They can’t help but wonder—was it because their father didn’t see them as capable, as able to stand on their own and provide? Or maybe it’s worse than that. Maybe it’s tied up in that old saying, "beti paraya dhan hoti hai"—a daughter is someone else’s wealth. It’s a phrase soaked in the old ways, in the idea that a daughter is just passing through, never really meant to stay, raised with the quiet understanding that one day she’ll belong to another home, another name. Many women, by some instinct, are drawn to view things in this way. But only recently have I come to grasp that the truth lies elsewhere. It isn't for the reasons we've been taught to believe. Fathers shy away from leaning on their daughters, not out of pride or stubbornness, but because deep down, it stirs a quiet fear within them—a fear that they’ve somehow fallen short as providers. It was hard to arrive at this truth. Men and women do not always feel guilty for the same things, and what one finds glaringly evident may slip past the other’s comprehension. Take for instance a woman’s plight: if she’s bedridden and can’t manage to prepare a meal for her family, she might be consumed by a gnawing guilt, ordering out instead of serving a home-cooked dish. To a man, this might seem like an overblown concern. Conversely, should the bills go unpaid for a month, she might merely pass the responsibility to her husband without a second thought. It’s almost humorous to her if he were to dwell on not being able to provide a trinket she’d like. Yet, in times of financial strain, men often find themselves beset by a deeper, more troubling anxiety, not merely over where the money’ll come from, but what this shortage signifies about their worth as providers. Once articulated, the truth set me free. It made me feel so much gratitude and empathy for the men who’ve borne this burden, without complaining and with so much grace. We often hear about the quiet fortitude of women—mothers who make silent sacrifices for their children. Yet, there is a grace in men as well, one that is no less noble. In modern thought, feminism paints a picture of men as the sole architects of freedom—men who go where they please, dress as they wish, and command the flow of currency with a casual ease. The image conjured is one of untrammelled liberty, yet behind this veneer of ease lies a vast sea of responsibility. Feminists advocate for women to earn, but primarily for personal empowerment and self-assurance, rather than to take on the responsibility of providing for others. In fact, most feminist discussions are about rights, never responsibilities. They teach women to view every move a man makes as a manoeuvre to encroach upon their domain, painting his every action as part of a grand crusade against their progress. However, one must not forget that much of what men endeavour to achieve is in the interests of women. Still, many women do want to provide for their families, and there is much meaning to be gained from the fulfilment of this responsibility. But the weight of this responsibility is huge, as is the contribution of men to family and society. A man may toil his entire life, adorn his wife with jewels, educate his children, see them married off, and indulge his grandchildren, only to find himself scraping by when his own turn finally comes in his seventies. Even then, he hesitates to depend on his children, especially his daughters. If he’s lucky, his son will step into his own shoes, and his daughter will be crafty in sneaking in help however she can, careful not to ask him to forsake the very principles that define him. If he is unlucky, he might find his ungrateful, ‘empowered,’ and otherwise successful children treating him as a burden and a failure, only to find themselves in a similar position someday. Then again, rotten eggs turn up in the best of families. Image source: Cimon and Pero by Peter Paul Rubens
Sadhika Pant
June 20 2024
My friends find themselves at that stage in life where death lurks around the edges, occasionally reaching out to snatch away a parent or grandparent. In those moments of loss, words of comfort seem feeble, almost pointless. You'd think that having lost six kin in the past ten years would grant me some mastery over grief, some ability to soothe it. But grief is a stubborn beast. It doesn't get easier with practice. Yet, through these dark times, a particular realisation has dawned on me. One common regret among people who’ve lost a close one, is the memory of conflicts with the departed—arguments, harsh words, moments of irritable snapping. When they’re gone, those left behind torment themselves with these memories, sometimes for years. I know this regret well. My relationship with my father in his final years was particularly stormy. I had one too many arguments with him. Some over little things, and some over big things now made little with perspective. Underneath, was a very emotional bond, much more emotional than the one I had with my mother (that’s not to say I loved her any less). Reflecting on those years, I see now that I was naive and immature, foolishly idealistic and overly righteous. Perhaps, I was not entirely wrong in my arguments from an objective view, but too much practicality turns out to be most impractical as I’ve come to learn. No, objectivity is best left unattempted. I also ponder whether I would have acted differently given more time. I doubt it. Even now, knowing full well that loss and regret are inevitable, I don’t treat my loved ones any differently. The days of discord remain, and so does the regret that follows, despite knowing I’ll one day mourn them and regret those moments. Of course, it goes without saying that we should treat our loved ones with respect and kindness, no matter how much time remains. This is a 'white truth.' The regrets born from unkindness, ingratitude and estrangement, from abusive behaviour and broken family bonds are perhaps deserved. But I'm not here to dwell on these black-and-white truths. I want to talk about the greys, the subtle complexities that define most human relationships. I’ve understood that It's not wise to judge my interactions with loved ones through the lens of hindsight, anticipating how I might feel once they're gone. I love a great many people. There are moments of irritability, arguments that escalate, and conflicts that end in tears or harsh words. The silver lining is that we find resolution. I prefer to live through these ebbs and flows in my relationships rather than constantly striving to be faultless, merely to spare myself future guilt upon their departure. Such a bond wouldn't ring true. Without lows, how could highs be reached? There will be days when I won't be my best self; I’ll be an inconvenience to those dear to me, and vice versa. Together, we shall pull each other up—some days it will be me doing the lifting, and some days it will be others lifting me. And hopefully, one day all that lifting will give me strength and courage to bear the full weight of loss and all it brings forth. Give me regret and guilt when it comes, for some is inevitable. But never again will I trade the richness of the here and now for its smallest portion. “When you can't run, you walk, and when you can't walk, you crawl, and when you can't do that... you find someone to carry you.” - Malcolm Reynolds, Firefly.
Sadhika Pant
June 24 2024
The sun beats down with a relentless fury on North India these days. Summer has reached its peak, the mercury climbing well beyond 45 degrees Celsius (113 degrees Fahrenheit). Heatwave alerts have been issued and the parks are empty even during the ongoing summer break in schools. Fires spring up unexpectedly in vehicles, air conditioning units, and electrical panels, each day bringing a new tale of destruction. Just the other day, one such incident occurred not far from where I live. It was 6:30 in the morning, and I was on my way for my morning swim. As I approached one of the familiar apartment buildings on my route, a massive fire caught my eye. Enormous clouds of black smoke billowed into the sky and there was utter chaos among the bystanders. On the first-floor balcony, an old man, perhaps seventy years of age, teetered on the brink of unconsciousness. Fortune smiled that day, as the fire engine roared up just in time. An ambulance arrived shortly after, followed by the police. Not wanting to be late, I didn’t wait to see what happened next. On my way home, I saw that the building now stood empty and the gates were locked. There was a security guard outside however, and I pulled over and asked him if all the residents had been safely rescued. He reassured me, easing my concerns with a nod and a few quiet words. I told my friends about this incident shortly after, and one of them posed a question that’s been gnawing at me ever since. At the time, I had no answer, and the question has lingered with me, unsettled and insistent. “Why did you come back to see if everyone in the building was safe? What would you have done if they weren't?” The question did stump me, I’ll admit. I couldn't quite say why I stopped to check. Truth be told, I don't imagine I would have done much if I had discovered someone was seriously injured or worse. I didn't know the people in the building, not personally, anyway. Proximity to a crisis stirs a person's actions, be it helping another, fleeing in terror, panicking, or rising to heroism. For me, only the suffering of a loved one—perhaps a family member or my boyfriend—could draw out anything heroic, though I doubt my effectiveness even then. Outside that circle of kith and kin, had the incident happened in the street where I live, I may have still been involved enough to help out in other ways. I might have visited people at the hospital or gone to meet their families. As the crisis moves beyond my neighbourhood, I would care enough to find out, but wouldn’t have taken a very active role. The further the tragedy from my home, the cooler my response. Frankly, had the incident occurred far away, I wouldn't have returned to follow up. At most, I'd check the local news, but I wouldn't go out of my way for strangers. It was the nearness of this event that compelled me to care and seek more. This got me thinking — is empathy just a matter of distance? It seems to be the case, and doesn’t that sound cynical? Many would argue that helping your own—family, friends, or neighbours—stems not from empathy but from selfishness. Perhaps there's truth in that. But thinking further, I realised it’s more hopeful than it seems. Selfishness is investing a part of yourself. When you stake your heart in your family or community, seeing a threat to them as a threat to yourself, you act, even at a personal cost. It is both selfish and selfless. Selfless is the stranger who plunges into the inferno to save an old man he has never met. Selfless, too, is the stranger who enlarges his sense of self so that he is a stranger no more. Great were the men who enlarged their selves to include not only their loved ones, but also their tribe and countrymen. That richness of identity has slipped from our grasp, yet we persist in seeking moments to restore the magnanimity of our diminished selves.