The truth is, when I started this blog I named it ‘The good Indian Girl’ sarcastically.
I’m a good person, I do unto others, as I would have them do unto me, I treat people with respect and try to act in a manner as to be the change I want to see. It’s exhausting, to be honest.
But by Indian standards, I’m not a ‘good’ girl. I never have been.
I was raised in a Punjabi Sikh home, with two practising parents. I cut my hair when I was 16 years old into a bob, just to piss off my parents, I smoked a cigarette, right in front of my Dad, specifically to hurt him.
Most of my teen years were spent defying my parents and cultural norms, in true rebellious fashion. And as such, most of them were also spent looking for a place to live when I rendered myself homeless for said behaviour.
Needless to say, I have come to see the error in my ways.
Now at the ripe age of 43 (soon to be 44), I see the damage I’ve done, to those same two people. The two people I struggled to be respectful to growing up and coming into my own. I see them aging and vulnerable. And I can’t help but feel the pain I caused them each time I broke their hearts, deliberately.
When I think about it, I hate myself. I hate that little girl I was. I hate that I didn’t understand that they loved me. Not in the conventional way, but in the only way they knew how.
As a parent of three now, I can understand their struggle. The financial burdens, the emotional highs and lows of marriage, the extended family and of course, the relentless inlaws. Couple that with moving, as very visible immigrants, to a new country and trying to raise three children while making a living in a small German town.
So they didn’t coddle me, they didn’t tell me they loved me. I felt unloved, alone and isolated most of my childhood and into my teens. I looked for love in all the wrong places, and I found it, BOY DID I FIND IT!
I wound up in a severely abusive relationship, pregnant at 19, out of the house and nowhere to live.
All through it, those same two people stood by me. Supported me as best they could. As the best they knew how. And now weary from life and the struggles they fought so hard against, they’re alone. Moved 100 kms away from everyone to enable their retirement.
I can’t help but feel responsible for them. For aging them, in my opinion, prematurely. My heart breaks every time I see them and then leave to return to my home. It wrenches now as I write this post through tearful eyes.
I wish I could’ve been more. I wish I could’ve done what I needed to do, for them. I wish I could show them how much I love them and how sorry I am that I’ve hurt them. That I would do anything to have a ‘do over’.
But alas, life’s not like that. It doesn’t allow for second chances, what’s done is done. So as I watch them, quietly without notice, I will try to forgive, myself.
A Good Indian Girl 