Notes on Culture & Antique Art, Ethnic Decor & Vintage Fashion | Wovensouls Art Gallery
It was a night several years ago. Our apartment on the 17th floor was near enough to the balcony of the neighbours on the 16th and 17th floor – near enough to have conversations. Near enough to hear conversations. Near enough to hear sobbing and cries of anguish.
The family that lived there, were among the sweetest of people we had known. No airs. None of the false airs that afflict the well-to-do. Completely modest, humble, simple minded and sweet. It was a large family – 3 grown up children and parents.
The cries, drew me as they would have in India. Where a neighbour’s anguish is your own, and one extends oneself and does everything possible to help.
The cries came from one of the daughters – “He does not love me anymore” as she sobbed.
Her parents were around her.Trying to hold an inconsolable girl.
The girl was in pain.
But the parents appeared to be in as much pain. Pain of helplessness. Pain of failing to comfort their child. Pain of being a mere spectator. The heartache of the parents was silent. No tears. No outburst. Just a silently burning heart.
Having lived to this grand old age, and having seen life from both sides – as a daughter and as a mother, it is clear now that there is no love greater than that which a parent feels towards the child. Even though it is limited in its scope of influence in the adult life of the child, over a whole life span, there is possibly no one who showers more love than parents*.
When I look back at the heartaches and heartbreaks I have witnessed, the anguish of the parents that night still pierces my soul and draws out grief. Grief in empathy for the helplessness of parents.
(Even though relationships are conducted badly, and interactions can be terrible, the love factor is probbaly the greatest)