Monday Musings

 By Priyabrat Biswal

TODAY, after a long gap, I called a journalist friend simply to ask how she was doing. As often happens with people we are comfortable with, the conversation soon drifted towards my own life and the things that have troubled me for some time.

I told her, once again, how some of my near and dear ones whom I had helped wholeheartedly now seemed to have forgotten me; how my attempts to help people struggling financially had sometimes strained relationships rather than strengthened them; and how, at times, I felt like a “sanitary pad” in the lives of many people — needed when there is a problem, used when convenient, and discarded once the purpose is served.

She normally gets irritated when I start narrating what she considers my endless list of grievances. But today she listened patiently. Then she said something that stayed with me.

She told me, quite firmly, that perhaps I myself was largely responsible for my unhappiness and loneliness.

Her words initially made me want to defend myself. But she explained. Almost everything I do, she said, seems to carry a hidden expectation. When I help someone, I expect them to remember. When I stand by someone in difficult times, I expect them to stand by me when my turn comes. When I give my time, money, affection or emotional support, I unconsciously expect acknowledgement, gratitude or reciprocity.

And when those expectations are not met, I feel hurt and betrayed.

She also said I take almost everything too seriously. I analyse people's words, behaviour and silences, attaching emotions and meanings to things that perhaps deserve nothing more than a shrug and a quiet “let it be.” My inability to take things lightly and my tendency to hold on to disappointments, she suggested, may be the very reasons I remain unhappy so often.

Initially, I listened without entirely agreeing. But after the call, instead of dismissing her words, I replayed them in my mind. I looked at my life without trying to justify myself or blame someone else.

And, uncomfortably, I realised she was right.

Perhaps people have changed, relationships have changed and the world around me has changed — but perhaps I have remained the same. I expect sincerity because I am sincere, loyalty because I am loyal, and remembrance because I remember everything I have done for people. Somewhere within me, I have been keeping an invisible account of relationships — what I gave, what I sacrificed and what I received in return. Whenever the balance seemed unfair, I felt wounded.

The painful truth is that nobody asked me to maintain that account.

Maybe this is where I have gone wrong. I believed goodness should naturally be reciprocated with goodness, and that those we stood beside in their darkest hours would remember us when our own darkness arrived. But life does not always work that way.

Kindness carries no guarantee of gratitude. Love carries no promise of permanence. Helping someone gives us no ownership over their future behaviour. We may give sincerely and still become a forgotten chapter in someone’s life.

Perhaps the real meaning of generosity is to give without keeping an invisible ledger — to know quietly that we did the right thing when someone needed us.

I am in my late fifties now, and I don't know how easy it will be to change. Decades have shaped the way I think, react and relate to people. My seriousness, emotional nature and tendency to care deeply are part of who I am.

But perhaps changing does not mean becoming someone else. I don't have to stop caring; I simply have to stop losing myself while caring for others. I don't have to stop helping; I have to help without expecting emotional repayment. I don't have to become indifferent; I only need to understand that not everything deserves my emotional investment.

Perhaps saying “no” does not make me selfish, walking away does not make me cruel, and letting go does not make what I once felt any less genuine.

Maybe, after all these years, I need to learn to take life a little less seriously. I cannot control how people remember me, treat me or whether they remain in my life. I can only control how much of myself I allow their behaviour to consume.

Perhaps peace begins when we stop trying to extract from people what they are simply not capable of giving.

So today, I am not angry with my friend. I am grateful to her. It takes little courage to comfort someone by saying, “You are right; people have treated you badly.” It takes much more courage to say, “Maybe you are also contributing to your own unhappiness.”

She gave me something more valuable than sympathy — a mirror.

I don't know whether I will ever change completely. Perhaps a part of me will always care too much, feel too deeply and expect too much. But I want to try. I want to enter the remaining years of my life carrying less emotional baggage, keeping fewer accounts and having fewer expectations.

I want to help because I want to help, not because I expect to be remembered. I want to love without constantly fearing that people may leave. I want to accept that some relationships have an expiry date and that their ending does not make them meaningless. Most importantly, I want to remain kind without allowing my kindness to become a source of resentment.

Perhaps happiness is not always about finding people who treat us exactly as we wish. Sometimes, it is about changing the way we look at people, relationships and life itself.

I cannot change the past, rewrite what people did or force anyone to value me. But I can decide that the rest of my life will not be spent measuring my worth by other people's gratitude.

Maybe growing older is not merely about adding years to our lives. Perhaps it is about carrying fewer expectations, forgiving more easily, letting go more gracefully and living a little more lightly.

And perhaps the most difficult lesson is also the most liberating: sometimes, the person standing between us and our happiness is not another person at all — it is the version of ourselves that refuses to let go.

Today, I am still learning how to change that version of myself. I don't have all the answers. But for the first time, I am willing to look within instead of looking around for someone to blame.

And perhaps that, in itself, is a small beginning.

 

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