I Wish You Had Died Instead of My Mother

“I Wish You Had Died Instead of My Mother” I could feel the father’s pain as he repeated those words. I was staying for a few days at the home of a devotee during one of my tours of America. My host had earlier spoken to me about his father, a retired Indian government employee in his seventies. “I lost my mother long ago, and my father is alone in India,” he told me. “I am trying to have him relocate to America so that he doesn’t have to live alone. My wife has agreed. The legal obstacles to getting a visa for parents are many nowadays, but I am ready to do whatever is required. The problem is that my father seems quite cold with me. And that’s how he has been for as long as I can remember. I don’t know what to do.” The distress on his face had been evident. But it was far exceeded by the anguish on his father’s face when, sometime later, he told me about an incident from decades earlier. “Soon after my wife passed away, my son had his tenth-standard board exam.” His eyes took on a distant look as he remembered. “One night he told me, ‘Please wake me up tomorrow morning at five o’clock. I have my exam, and I need to study.’ “I agreed. That night, when I woke up around two to respond to nature, I saw that he was still awake and studying. I generally wake up around five, so in the morning I went to wake him. His alarm was also ringing. I called out to him, and when he didn’t wake up, I shook him a little. He opened his eyes for a moment, but they were red with lack of sleep, and he immediately fell back into a deep sleep. “Seeing how exhausted he was, I thought that if I woke him up, the lack of sleep might affect his performance in the exam. So I let him sleep. “When he woke up around seven, he was furious. He screamed at me, ‘This is the most important exam of my life, and you have ruined it for me by not waking me up.’ “And then he said, ‘I wish you had died instead of my mother.’” The father’s voice faltered. “I felt as if he had stabbed me right in my stomach and then twisted the knife inside. He didn’t apologize. He didn’t even acknowledge my pain. He just walked away in anger. I was so shocked that I couldn’t say anything. “Afterward, we both acted as if the incident had never happened. But it has scarred our relationship ever since.” “I am so sorry,” I said, “that you were wounded so grievously and that you have been carrying this wound for so many years.” He looked into the distance. “Perhaps he was right,” he continued. “He was much closer to his mother than he was to me. While he was growing up, I had a traveling job. I was doing my best to take care of him—he was our only son—but my wife died of cancer.” His voice choked. “If it had been in my power, I would have been ready to die in her place. She would have taken much better care of our son than I ever could.” I gently touched his right hand and held it in mine. He covered my hand with his left hand and held it tightly as he tried to compose himself. After a few long moments of silence, I asked, “Have you ever told him how his words affected you?” His voice became sharper. “If he didn’t realize what those words did to me, I didn’t think my telling him would help. As I mentioned, we were never emotionally very close to each other. That incident pushed us even further apart.” Then, with resignation in his voice, he added, “Words once spoken are like arrows released from a bow. They cannot be pulled back. I just want to forget that he spoke those words. I told you about this because I wanted to ask: Is there any way I can unremember them?” I thought for a moment before replying. “Such painful memories are like emotional wounds inside us. The memory itself can’t simply be deleted, but the wound can be healed. And if the wound heals, the memory may remain, but it no longer has the same power to cause pain.” “So how can the wound be healed?” he asked. “Emotional wounds are in some ways like physical wounds. As long as a physical wound is raw, even a slight touch can trigger pain. But once the wound has healed, even if it leaves behind a permanent scar, touching the scar no longer causes pain. Similarly, as long as an emotional wound is raw, anything that triggers the memory of the painful incident can immediately cause us pain. But when the wound heals, the memory gradually loses its emotional power. Even when something triggers the memory, it no longer causes the same pain.” “Doesn’t practicing bhakti heal the wound?” he asked. “I have started chanting Krishna’s names and remembering him. It has helped me find some overall peace, but it hasn’t removed or even reduced the pain of those words.” I nodded. “To continue with the wound analogy, deepening our devotion is like eating nutritious food. Devotion improves our overall emotional well-being, just as nutritious food improves our overall physical health. But nutritious food alone may not heal every specific physical wound. That wound may need specific treatment. Similarly, some emotional wounds may need specific healing—in this case, perhaps some healing of the relationship in which the wound occurred.” He looked away, as if reluctant to hear this particular point. “I don’t think I am ready to talk with him about this.” I decided not to press the point. Instead, I asked, “How have his dealings with you been over the last decade or so, since he settled in America?” He looked back at me. “He has always been polite and respectful. Whenever he comes to India, he does more than what most sons would do to take care of any long-term issues with my house, taxes or legal matters. And whenever he invites me here, he and his wife take very good care of me.” “Is it okay if I talk with him and tell him how you feel?” He shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t mind.” What He Didn’t Remember That evening, I spoke with my host. When I told him what his father had told me, his face turned white. He sat down as if his legs had become too unsteady to hold him up. I sat beside him and held his hands. “I can’t believe I ever said anything like that. I can’t imagine how much pain he must have been in all these years. The worst thing is that I can’t even remember the incident that hurt him so much.” His brow furrowed, as if he were trying to piece together a distant memory. “All I remember is that I woke up late and felt very angry that my father had been awake but hadn’t woken me up. But I was more angry with myself than with him.” He paused as he gathered his thoughts. “Actually, after my mother passed away, my father was constantly very sad. I really wanted to bring some happiness into his life. I thought that if I could get good marks in my tenth-standard exam, that would give him a reason to smile. That’s why I studied like never before for that exam.” Still looking into the distance, he continued. “I guess that’s why I was so worked up when I overslept. It was because I cared so much for him that I was so agitated.” Then the painful irony of what his father had heard him say seemed to strike him. “And yet all along he thought that I didn’t care for him. Oh God, what did I do?” He immediately ran to his father’s room and knocked on the door. When his father came out, the son fell at his feet. “I am really sorry. I don’t even remember exactly what I spoke at that time, but I never meant it.” With tears in his eyes and choking back a sob, he continued, “I am so grateful for the way you took care of me after my mother passed away. You have done more for me than most fathers would have done—or even could have done. Please forgive me.” His father, clearly uncomfortable with this sudden display of emotion, replied, “It’s all right. It was many years ago.” The son tried again. “I was studying so hard because I wanted to make you happy. That’s why I got so upset when I overslept. I was more angry with myself than with you. In that anger, I spoke words that hurt you terribly. I sincerely apologize for those words.” His father nodded stiffly. I could sense that although the emotional wall between them had cracked, it had not yet fallen. “Excuse me,” I said. They turned toward me as if they had suddenly become aware that I was also present in the room. “Can both of you sit down?” Pointing toward the sofas in the hall where I had been talking with my host, I said, “I would like to tell both of you a story.” They sat on sofas facing each other, and I sat between them at right angles to both. “You both know the story of Sita’s abduction,” I began. They nodded, curious about where I was going. “I would like to focus on one particular part of that story. “Rama had been gone for quite some time in pursuit of the deer, and Sita was becoming increasingly apprehensive. Earlier, when she had asked Rama to get the deer for her, Lakshmana had cautioned her, ‘That is probably not a real deer. It may be a demon disguised as a deer.’ Sita had dismissed his warning: ‘You are too suspicious.’ “But now, as Rama’s return was delayed, Lakshmana’s words started replaying in her memory, increasing her fear. “Then she heard what sounded like Rama’s voice crying out, ‘Lakshmana! Lakshmana!’ “Her anxiety rose to a fever pitch. “Sita urged, ‘Lakshmana, your brother needs you. Go immediately and help him.’ “Lakshmana remained unmoved and unmoving. “Lakshmana replied, ‘That is not Rama’s voice. It is probably a demon impersonating him.’ “Sita protested, ‘That is clearly Rama’s voice. Do you think I cannot recognize my husband’s voice?’ “Lakshmana tried to reassure her. ‘Rama cannot be in any danger. You saw how he single-handedly killed fourteen thousand demons. There is no need for you to be anxious.’ “His words failed to allay her fears. “Sita insisted, ‘But what if he is in danger? Just go and see whether he needs your help.’ “Lakshmana replied, ‘I cannot leave you. Rama specifically instructed me to remain here and protect you.’ “Lakshmana’s words were meant to help Sita see reason, but they only intensified her emotion—specifically, her guilt. She felt guilty that it was because of her desire for the deer that she had sent Rama deep into the forest. And now, because Lakshmana had to stay back for her safety, Rama was being denied the help he needed. “Sita exhorted Lakshmana, ‘I’ll be all right here. Just go and help Rama. He needs you.’ “Lakshmana still refused, remaining alert for any possible attack from the surrounding forest. “The already disturbed Sita, seeing Lakshmana apparently undisturbed, became even more disturbed. “Making a desperate attempt to get Lakshmana to go to Rama, she began speaking whatever came to her mind. “Sita demanded, ‘Why are you not going to help your brother? Is it that you have some ulterior motive in letting Rama remain in danger—or even succumb to danger?’ “In her mounting anxiety over Rama, Sita seemed barely aware of the words she was speaking. “Sita accused him, ‘I know why you are not going. You have an evil intention to possess me for yourself. But such an evil design will never be fulfilled. I would rather die than be touched by any other man.’ “Hearing that grievous accusation, Lakshmana trembled as if struck by a thunderbolt. “Lakshmana pleaded, ‘O Sita, you do not know what words you are speaking. Please stop.’ “But Sita continued, almost as if unaware of what Lakshmana was saying. “Retreating from her physically, Lakshmana said, ‘While you speak such words, I cannot bear to remain here. I fear that a great disaster may befall you in my absence. Yet I will now go to find Rama.’ “Lakshmana departed, hoping to find Rama quickly and bring him back to calm Sita. “As soon as Lakshmana went out of sight, Ravana swooped in and abducted Sita.” The father interrupted me. “You know that both of us know this story. Why are you telling it to us now?” “Yes,” I replied. “I am coming to that. “Although Lakshmana was grievously hurt by Sita’s words, he did not let those words overshadow their long-term relationship. When he returned with Rama and discovered that Sita had been abducted, he didn’t think vindictively, ‘You accused me of such a terrible thing. Whatever has happened to you serves you right.’ “Such a thought didn’t even cross his mind. “And after the war, when Sita was finally rescued and they met again, Lakshmana did not say, ‘I am still waiting for an apology for what you accused me of that day.’ “He kept that memory firmly in the past so that it could live there and eventually die there.” Seeing both of them pensive, I continued. “Life is hard. Sometimes life’s pains can make even the best of us snap momentarily. I have tried to articulate the attitude Lakshmana embodied in this way: “Don’t see intention in what is spoken in tension.” A light seemed to dawn in the father’s eyes as he understood where I was going. The son was still looking down at the ground, perhaps not wanting to get his hopes up too high. Then I opened Bhagavad Gita 17.15 on my phone, showed it to both of them and suggested that we recite it together: anudvega-karaṁ vākyaṁ satyaṁ priya-hitaṁ ca yat svādhyāyābhyasanaṁ caiva vāṅ-mayaṁ tapa ucyate “This verse describes that disciplined speech has four qualities: it is non-agitating, pleasing, truthful and helpful. I would like to focus on two of them here: non-agitating and truthful.” I turned toward the son. “What you spoke that day was the opposite of non-agitating. It was hyper-agitating. You cannot take those words back. You have apologized. Now you can speak words that help the healing continue and follow those words with actions that reveal what is actually in your heart.” Then I turned toward his father. “When we have been terribly hurt, we too need to do our part in healing. For you, that may mean being truthful about what happened and about how deeply it affected you—not to dig up an old wound, but to help your son understand why there has been aloofness in your relationship. “Otherwise, he may think that you keep him at a distance because you don’t care. However, I think the reality is the opposite. It is because you care for him that his words wounded you so deeply. It is because you care for him that you are here in America instead of continuing to stay in India. And it is because you care for him that you told me about that incident. “Speaking this truth can help both of you understand what has been keeping you apart.” I looked at both of them. “I think the two of you need to have a heart-to-heart discussion.” They looked at each other and nodded. “I’ll give you some privacy.” I got up and went to the guest room where I was staying. The next morning, my host approached me. “Things are much better between us,” he said. “It will take time for everything to heal, but we have made a tangible beginning. At least now I know what has been wrong, and I know what I need to work on. I am so grateful that you acted as a bridge between my father and me.” His father later told me, “Yes, I had a heart-to-heart discussion with my son. The more I opened my heart to him, the more I could see that he has a very good heart. We spoke candidly, and we also prayed together. I feel that we are coming closer to each other and closer to Krishna.” Later, as I reflected on this interaction, I saw that I had become an instrument for making the invisible visible to both of them. The father could not forget words that the son did not even remember. The son remembered the inner tension from which those words had erupted, but his father had known nothing of that tension. Their healing began when each discovered something that had long been invisible in the other. As I reflected on their experience, I could readily remember times when I had been in the father’s position, when someone’s words had wounded me deeply. I too needed to learn to let go of such words, just as Lakshmana had let go of Sita’s words. Then a more uncomfortable thought arose within me. Perhaps there had also been times when I had been in the son’s position—when my words had hurt others but, like the son, I had later forgotten them. Perhaps I too had apologies to offer and amends to make. Thinking thus, I offered a prayer: My dear Lord, please bring healing to my heart from wounds that others’ words may have caused. And please help me become aware of any hearts that my own unknowing or unintentional words may have wounded, so that I can do my part in bringing healing to them. May Your words in the Gita, especially Your guidance about disciplined speech, help me pause before I speak so that I don’t cause fresh wounds. Help me also to reflect on what I have already spoken so that I can heal wounds I may have previously caused. *** 17.15 Austerity of speech consists in speaking words that are truthful, pleasing, beneficial, and not agitating to others, and also in regularly reciting Vedic literature. The post I Wish You Had Died Instead of My Mother first appeared on Chaitanya Charan Das, Bhagavad Gita ISKCON .