The room was heavy with silence before my father's voice cracked through it like thunder.
"Shehar mein paisa ped par nahi ugta, Eshan!" (Money doesn't grow on trees in the city!)
His words echoed, bouncing off the faded yellow walls of our old living room, where the air always smelled faintly of turmeric and incense. My father stood by the window, his calloused hands gripping the frame. The warm glow of the evening sun spilled onto his face, highlighting the deep lines etched by years of hard work and worry.
Across the room, my mother sat on a cane chair, nervously wringing the end of her saree. Her eyes darted between us, torn between her love for her son and her loyalty to her husband. Disha, my younger sister, leaned against the kitchen doorway, arms folded tightly across her chest. She didn't say a word, but the determined set of her jaw spoke volumes—she was on my side.
And then there was me, standing in the middle of it all, feeling like the black sheep in a herd of white.
Why does every parent think moving to the city is equivalent to signing a death warrant? Sure, I might get lost, get scammed, or even starve. But hey, at least I'll have Wi-Fi.
"Papa, I'm not asking for your money," I said, trying to keep my voice steady. "I'll figure it out. I just need your blessing."
My father turned to me, his eyes blazing. "Blessing? You think blessings will pay rent in the city, Eshan? Or buy you food? You'll sell your soul to those corporate sharks and come back empty-handed!"
His words stung, not because they were harsh but because they revealed his fear. It wasn't just about money. It was about losing me, the farm, the traditions that had bound our family for generations.
"Papa, I'm not abandoning anything," I said, taking a step closer to him. "I'm just trying to create something better. For all of us."
Why do I sound like some hero from a Bollywood movie? "Main apne parivaar ke liye lad raha hoon!" (I'm fighting for my family!) Cue dramatic background score and slow-motion tears.
"Better?" My father's voice cracked. "What's better than working on the land your ancestors fought to keep? This land is your identity, Eshan. Don't throw it away for a few thousand rupees and some hollow city dreams."
My mother shifted in her chair, her lips trembling as if she wanted to speak but didn't dare.
"Ma," I turned to her, desperate. "Please. Say something. You know I'm not wrong."
She looked up at me, her eyes glistening. "Beta," she said softly, "your father only wants what's best for you."
I sighed, running a hand through my hair. "What's best for me, Ma, or what's best for the family?"
The argument escalated. My father's voice grew louder, his words sharper. I countered with every ounce of logic I could muster, but logic was no match for years of tradition and emotion.
"You think life is easy in the city?" he spat. "You'll be a nobody there. Here, you have a name, a purpose."
"And what purpose is that, Papa?" I shot back. "To stay here and watch our crops fail year after year? To scrape by while the world moves forward?"
"Enough!" My father's hand slammed against the wooden window frame. "If you leave, don't expect to come back."
The words hung in the air, heavy and final. My mother gasped softly, her hand flying to her mouth. Disha straightened, her eyes wide with shock.
"Papa—"
"Don't," he said, his voice low but firm. "I've said what I had to say."
He turned and walked out of the room, his footsteps echoing down the hallway.
For a moment, none of us moved. My mother looked like she might cry, but she stayed rooted in her chair, staring at the floor. Disha crossed the room and put a hand on my shoulder.
"You're doing the right thing, Bhai," she said softly. "He'll understand one day."
I nodded, though my heart felt like it was breaking. My father wasn't just angry; he was hurt. And deep down, I knew he was scared—scared of losing the only thing he'd ever known: his family and his land.
Great. Now I'm the villain in my own story. "Once upon a time, there was a selfish son who wanted to trade his family's happiness for city lights and cappuccinos."
---
"Ma," I said, turning to her, "I'll take care of everything. I promise."
She looked up at me, her face pale and tired. "Take care of yourself first, beta. That's all a mother wants."
I swallowed hard, feeling the weight of her words.
---
As I packed my bag later that night, I couldn't shake my father's words from my mind. If you leave, don't expect to come back.
I stood by the doorway, my bag slung over my shoulder, and glanced back at the house one last time. The flickering light from the kitchen window cast long shadows on the walls, making the place look even older than it was.
I took a deep breath and stepped out into the cool night air. The city awaited, with all its chaos and promise. But as I walked away, I couldn't help but wonder if I was walking toward my dreams or away from my family.