My eternal love
Dear Mai,
Before the day of Guru Purnima comes to an end, I wanted to write you a letter. Strangely, this is the first letter I have ever written to you. I never really needed to write one—you were always there with me. And even when you were not physically beside me, you were just a phone call away.
I miss you, Mai.
You were the one I loved with all my heart. But saying “you loved me” is not enough. A mother’s love cannot be measured in words. It is eternal, unconditional, and perhaps the purest form of love that exists.
From my childhood, I somehow always felt that I had to protect you, that I had to live for you. You were so vulnerable and so innocent at times. You were an ambitious young woman whose dreams were crushed—first by your parental family and then by your marital family.
I often marvelled at your resilience, but I also struggled with the fact that you never stood up for yourself. Perhaps no one had ever taught you how. Yet, despite that, you taught us something even more valuable—to withstand pressure, to remain strong, and to follow our dreams.
Today is the first Guru Purnima when I cannot touch your feet. You are my first Guru. Distance, time, and even death cannot change that.
I still remember the last Guru Purnima in the hospital. You were so unwell. I don’t know whether I was being insensitive or simply trying to prepare myself when I said, “Mom, let me offer my last pranam to you.” And you quietly replied, “My last blessing to you. Everything comes to an end. Nothing is stagnant.”
Mai… I have carried those words in my heart ever since.
Did I, in some way, push you to leave this world by saying that?
I don’t know why this thought keeps haunting me.
I am sorry, Mom.
I love you. And I miss you far more than words can ever express.
I am still trying to figure out what life is without you. My life revolved around you—our countless conversations, those little phone calls every now and then, asking each other the smallest things. It has been a year now without hearing your voice. I still cannot believe that life has somehow continued.
But believe me, a part of me left with you forever.
However hard I try, I know I will never be the same person again.
On this Guru Purnima, I bow my head before my first Guru—my Mai.
Jai Guru, Mummy!!
Your Deepu, always.
Category: Reflections
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Letter to Mai on Guru Purnima
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Podcast Episode: Violence Fear And Youth Inequality
Pip: Welcome to GyaniNani’s Reading Room — where the questions that stay with you after the headlines fade are exactly the ones worth sitting with.
Mara: This episode covers two stretches of territory: a multi-part series on how violence travels through public imagination and what it does to our sense of safety and agency, and a close look at youth addiction across the full sweep of class and circumstance in urban India.
Pip: Let’s start with the violence series — and the uncomfortable question of which suffering we actually notice.
Violence, Fear, and the Stories We Tell
Pip: The series opens with a deceptively simple observation: some acts of violence become everyone’s fear, while others stay someone else’s tragedy. The question driving these posts is why — and what that gap reveals about us.
Mara: Part Two puts it directly: “Not every act of violence enters the national conscience. That, too, tells us something about ourselves.” The piece builds from a field visit where a woman described hearing about another girl dying after marriage and said, matter-of-factly, that life goes on — no anger, no surprise, only acceptance.
Pip: That sentence is the whole argument in miniature. When violence becomes routine enough that a grieving community greets it with resignation, we’ve moved past shock into something harder to name.
Mara: Part One sets the psychological foundation. TD, the clinical psychologist in conversation throughout the series, says: “The mind does not count statistics. It remembers stories.” That’s why a single filmed murder on a train spreads fear into every compartment while years of domestic abuse stays behind closed walls.
Pip: Visibility, repetition, novelty — the mind responds to framing, not frequency. Which is a polite way of saying our collective compassion has a very specific algorithm.
Mara: Part Two makes that plain. Dowry deaths — the NCRB recorded 5,737 in 2024, roughly sixteen a day — rarely become national conversations. The piece argues that familiarity erodes shock: communities living with repeated violence may stop expecting justice, and what begins as adaptation quietly becomes acceptance.
Mara: Part Three sharpens the wound further. When TD says “intention changes everything,” the post is getting at why deliberate violence leaves behind not just grief but doubt — a rupture in our assumption that people are basically decent.
Pip: And Part Four lands on the crowd that watches. The bystander effect means the more witnesses there are, the less likely any one of them moves — responsibility diffuses until stillness feels like the appropriate response.
Mara: Which brings the series to the question of agency. From the survivor’s side, a neighbor’s silence feels indistinguishable from indifference. The series argues that communities are built when responsibility stays personal — when we stop assuming someone else will intervene.
Pip: That thread — from public fear to private silence to the cost of not acting — runs through all four parts. The series isn’t asking us to be heroes. It’s asking whether we’re paying attention.
Mara: And that question of attention connects directly to another kind of invisible harm — one that plays out not in crowds but in the quieter geography of adolescence.
Youth, Addiction, and the Shape of Emptiness
Pip: The piece on youth addiction starts with the “trust fund kid” as a way in — not to mock the label, but to dismantle it. Wealth without necessity, it turns out, is its own kind of vulnerability.
Mara: The argument is that both poles of the class spectrum can damage aspiration. The post puts it this way: “In privilege, aspiration may weaken because nothing feels necessary. In deprivation, aspiration may weaken because nothing feels possible.” One produces excess without purpose; the other produces struggle without hope.
Pip: So the substance isn’t the story. The absence underneath it is.
Mara: Exactly. The piece insists addiction is multifactorial — trauma matters, but so do biology, ADHD, peer culture, and the pharmacology of the substance itself. The real diagnostic question isn’t only what happened to this young person, but what function the substance is serving right now.
Mara: And shame-based responses make it worse. When adults answer with punishment or ridicule, young people hide further. Recovery, the piece argues, requires both accountability and dignity.
Pip: Which is a harder thing to build than a policy list — though the piece has one of those too, from early screening to community youth programmes to post-treatment relapse support.
Mara: Both threads this episode come back to the same underlying question: what do we quietly learn to live with, and what does that cost us?
Pip: Whether it’s the violence we stop noticing or the adolescent we stop asking about — the next conversation is always the one we almost didn’t have.