Author’s note: In the Happiness Survey we conducted, our respondents identified parent’s fighting/divorce as one of key causes for distress while growing up. It is a difficult problem without a fix, we reckon. Here’s a short story on the subject. It is a work of fiction (inspired by many true stories). it doesn’t attempt to solve anything. It is just–us saying, we understand. We’ve gone through it too. Our healing is WIP too. And if you need any help dealing with any of this, here’s an awesome website by Dr. Lynne Namka.

Frankfurt airport was trying to bring in Holiday cheer that November afternoon.

Trying, not succeeding.

Hari suppressed a yawn as he scoped-out his probable trajectory through the artificially-lit wretchedness of the airport. He had a five-hour layover before his flight to Chennai via Mumbai.

He wondered what depressed him more—the airport or the errand that had brought him thither.

The cheerless long corridors of the airport, sporadically interspersed with unimaginative shops that lacked the warm enthusiasm of airports such as Schiphol or Changi, won a temporary victory.

Hari hefted his backpack and continued walking.

He stopped at a display to check his departure gate—too early. What would he do now?

He was groggy from his long flight from Texas and irritable. He felt unclean—unshaven, un-brushed, and un-showered.

He looked around. There was a cluster of shops, selling travel odds and ends, books, liquor and overpriced local curios. There was a token winter wonderland decoration in the middle, complete with a snowman and a Christmas tree, it’s plastic leaves adorned with baubles and light. A bicycle was leaning on the Christmas tree, its carrier laden with gaily wrapped gifts. A café-bar was doing brisk business on one side, filled with other listless transit passengers balefully contemplating the scene.

He walked over to the café and stood in line. Maybe a coffee would help.

Amma’s filter coffee would definitely help. He smiled—that was one thing that he was looking forward to.

Eating with Amma were the little joys of his and his sister Malini’s otherwise not-so happy childhood. Not that she could make anything elaborate for them—that would have come under severe criticism of his bitch of a grandmother.

For some complex, unknowable reason, his grandmother scorned her own grandchildren, probably because they were the offspring of her least favorite son and daughter-in-law from a poor family, who didn’t bring much in terms of dowry or property. Quite twisted, really. So Amma had to use a lot of subterfuge to make the occasional treat. But she did make them and they did have their little secret picnics.

“I don’t understand—why didn’t your mother walk away?” Jane, his girlfriend, had asked him many times.

Hari had never felt the chasm of cultural divide as keenly as in those moments.

How could he tell her that harassing mother-in-laws and uncaring and callous husbands were actually the most commonly observed archetypes in his country? Unfortunately, his grandmother was a truly vicious specimen and his dad was quite a messed up product of that toxicity. But it was no big deal back home. Not really.

“Sir, vat vould you like?” the guy at the counter asked.

“A cappuccino please,” Hari said, and wondered at the weariness he felt. Must be the long flight. Or the weight of the desolation of his family.

He found a seat at a large round table near a pillar. One Asian couple and a middle aged Indian lady were the other occupants. The Indian lady looked up and smiled at him in a friendly manner and went back to the book she was reading. The Asian couple continued their low-voiced conversation, barely acknowledging him.

He picked up his phone and connected to the airport wi-fi. He opened WhatsApp and pinged Jane.

She called almost immediately.

He connected his earphones and switched to video call. It was a pleasure to see Jane’s warm face.

“How you holdin’ up?” she asked, her voice imperceptibly cracked over cyberspace.

Hari grimaced and held up his coffee cup.

“How you doing?” he asked.

“It got a little chilly here,” she responded, explaining her shrug.

“It’s sad here,” Hari remarked, looking around at the harsh lights.

Jane smiled, her eyes brimming with compassion and love.

“Maybe it is you who are sad?” she asked softly.

Hari curved his lips and scratched his stubbly jaw.

“It’s gonna be ok, baby,” Jane said.

Hari doubted it. Visits home were seldom ok. His mother had some reprieve after his grandmother had passed away, but his parents’ relationship was still strained. They continued to live their individual lives under one awkward roof, two passengers on a train bound to different destinations.

His father had stopped talking to his mother over some disagreement fueled by his grandmother and had stayed unspeaking for decades. And eventually, they’d stopped having anything to talk about.

So visits home was like visiting two different worlds—the hyper, pious, and overfeeding world of his mother and the taciturn, grunting world of his father. Connected by a servant or two.

His mom was a different animal when she came visiting him in the States—curious and adventurous–but she started itching to get back to her community back home after a couple of months.

Hari sighed. “I guess so,” he replied.

And now Appa was sick. A paralytic attack. How were they going to manage?

Jane, his partner, his soul mate, smiled in understanding.

“You’ll figure out something,” she said.

“Alright,” Hari said heavily. “I’ll sign off. My battery is running low. Will call when I find a charging station.”

“Ok, talk to you soon. Love ya,” Jane said and disconnected.

Hari took off his ear phones and took a sip of his coffee.

The Asian couple got up. He watched them gather their stuff and leave.

His eyes fell on the other Indian lady. She had also looked up when the Asian couple started moving, and now she made eye contact with him. And smiled again.

“Tiresome journey huh? Where are you headed?” she asked him.

Hari grimaced. “Chennai,” he replied.

“Oh, same here! From there, I’m headed to Trichy. How about you?” she brightened.

“Chennai only,” Hari responded.

He was in no mood to talk, but what else did he have to do really? And there was something very friendly and nice about the lady—she must be in her late 40s or early 50s. She was smartly dressed and had an air of intelligence around her.

“Oh nice. I visit there every music season,” the lady smiled. “I’m an amateur singer,” she said. She clearly liked this feature of hers.

Hari smiled. “I’m very far from music,” he replied.

The lady looked at him appraisingly. “Nobody is,” she said. “You are into IT?”

Hari laughed. “No, far from that as well. I am a tattoo artist—have my own tattoo parlor in Houston,” he said.

“Interesting!” the lady looked at him closely. “My son is threatening to get one,” she said with a wry smile.

“Good for him,” Hari murmured and buried his nose in his coffee.

 “You are going on leave?” the lady seemed to want to continue chatting.

“Yes,” he replied mechanically, then for some reason said truthfully: “Actually, my dad is quite unwell. Going to visit.”

“Oh my God. I’m sorry to hear that. What happened?” she asked, her brows furrowing in concern.

“Paralytic attack. Still in the ICU,” he replied and felt a tightness around his chest.

“Adada!” she commiserated. “I’m sure he will get well soon.”

Hari felt like crying. “Thanks—but I understand he is very critical,” he said.

What was he doing, pouring his heart out to a complete stranger? Jet lag must have kicked in already.

“Hmm, let’s pray he gets out of it soon,” she said.

Silence fell at the table.

Hari leaned back into the pillar behind him and closed his eyes.

What was the appropriate emotion to feel for a father who was so detached, preoccupied, uncommunicative and unapproachable all his life? A parent who was so caught up in his own failure that he couldn’t see the distress of his wife and kids? A man who had acquiesced to the dominance of his mother without protest and had practically left his family to fend for themselves in a toxic environment? What to feel for a man that had ruined their lives even before they started?

Yet, here he was, teetering between grief and rage, sitting on an indifferent chair in an indifferent airport, a mere speck in the maelstrom of emotions.

“You know, that cycle reminds me of my own when I was young. I insisted on a basket like this—difficult to get in Trichy, back in the day,” the lady said suddenly.

Hari looked up with surprise. What cycle?

The lady gestured to the cycle that was part of the Christmas diorama.

Hari nodded.

“I was 10 years old,” the lady continued. “A friend of mine got one all the way from Chennai and I wanted one too.”

Hari looked at her nonplussed.

“We were not very well to do, you know. My dad was a clerk in the accounts department in BHEL. All we had was dad’s Raleigh bicycle, no car, no scooter,” she continued. She turned to him. “Have you heard of Raleigh bicycles?” she asked.

Honestly Hari hadn’t.

“Well, they were a British company. Very famous,” the lady explained. “Anyway, Appa had his bicycle—a shining black steed which maintained in mint condition. But it was a men’s cycle and too big. So I wanted a girl’s cycle for myself, with a dainty basket in the front,” she continued.

Hari could sense that she was thinking of her own father—probably she had lost him recently? He sat quietly, waiting for her to continue.

“The more I saw my friend flying around in her cycle, the more my yearning grew. She would let me ride hers now and then, but one day we fought and she wouldn’t let me touch her bicycle. One of those silly fights kids get into, but I was very upset. I came home and cried and cried,” the lady smiled in reminiscence.

Hari thought he could see her in pigtails and skirt, crying buckets.

“So to pacify me, my parents told me that they will get me one if I come first in class in math. Math is so important to us South Indians,” she shook her head. “I was always a good student, but that term, I put in extra hard work. And I came first in math.”

“But?” Hari asked, engaged in the story despite himself.

She took off her glasses and started polishing them. “My parents really couldn’t afford a brand new bicycle, you see. It used to be around 1000 – 1200 bucks which was a princely sum in those days. But I was too little, didn’t understand any of this. I just wanted a bicycle with a basket in front and show off to my mean friend,” she continued.

“And they had promised,” Hari murmured.

She put her glasses back on. “Yes, they had promised. So I reminded them. In very strident terms,” she smiled lopsidedly. “I even did a hunger strike one night—went to bed without dinner.”

Hari thought of his Amma. She would’ve saved a glass of milk for him and would’ve insisted that he drank it.

“Next day, when I got back from school, Appa was at home, waiting for me. And my parents took me to the backyard, where, under the tamarind tree, was a gleaming new girl’s cycle! With the basket in front!” she said.

Hari smiled.

“Appa helped me up and off I went, on a round in the colony—I was the happiest child in Trichy that day,” the lady said, her eyes sparkling.

Hari waited.

The lady was silent for some time. She sighed and looked back at him. “It was only the next day that I noticed Appa’s Raleigh was gone,” she said, with a break in her voice.

Hari was stunned. “You mean?”

“Yes, Appa had sold his cycle to get mine,” she said, her eyes fixed on the bicycle under the Xmas tree.

“Gift of the Magi,” Hari murmured.

“Probably,” she said. “Or felt honor-bound to live up to a promise. Or I was raising Caine and he succumbed to the pressure.”

Hari frowned at her.

“We never got along when I grew up,” the lady’s lips curved in deprecation. “He was horribly old fashioned, male chauvinistic and patriarchal. His sense of entitlement alone used to make me see red.”

They both sat in silence for a long time, lost in thought, immersed in the white noise around them.

“We lost him to Alzheimer’s last year. The last years were horrific,” she sighed.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Hari said.

“Yeah, ruin comes to cabbages and kings,” the lady commented. “But I at least had the cycle.”

“I had typhoid when I was 12,” Hari said suddenly.

The lady looked at him quizzically.

“I had to be hospitalized and was quite sick. Amma couldn’t stay with me—patti wouldn’t let her. Appa stayed with me in the hospital for a week,” he said.

“I see,” the lady said quietly, her eyes seeing something he was not showing.

Hari drew in a breath.

“I need to find a charging point. My battery’s down,” he said and got up. “Safe travels to you!”

“Bye,” she replied.

Hari picked up his backpack and started walking away. He needed a charging station. He needed to call Jane back.

His head was beginning to throb. He ran a weary hand over his eyes.

What were those? Hot tears?