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“I resented my mother for the longest time. She was always affectionate. There’s nothing mean-spirited about her. But she has some sort of condition. I used to be embarrassed to bring friends over. She was always fidgeting. She couldn’t sit still. There were a lot of monologues, and often they didn’t make any sense. When I was young I didn’t realize it was mental illness. Especially because the subject is taboo in India. So I’d just get angry with her. I’d victimize myself and blame her for everything. But I’m older now, so I’m trying to be more patient. I’ve met a lot of people who don’t even have mothers. So I’ve stopped fighting it. I don’t nag her. I hug her more. And I listen to her, even if she doesn’t always make sense.”
(Mumbai, India)
“When I was a child, it was up to me to feed our family because my father couldn't work. I had a job at a motorcycle repair shop. Everyone would sit at home and wait for me to make money. Once we almost ran out of food. We didn’t have a single rupee and there was nothing to eat. I could handle it, but I couldn’t bear the thought of my baby sister going to sleep hungry. I sat at my shop all day, praying for a customer. But nobody came. Then just as night was falling, a man drove up with a puncture in his tire. The price of the repair was three rupees. But when I was finished, the man handed me twenty rupees and drove away. I was able to buy two kilograms of rice. My entire life turned around that day. My shop became very busy. We were never hungry again. Even today I think about that man. I never saw his face. He changed not just my life, but the lives of my entire family. I wonder who he was. Sometimes I think it was God himself.”
(Mumbai, India)
“My mother’s friends say that I’m just like her. She died of breast cancer when I was two years old. I had to grow up fast because my father was always working and seldom around. I was doing my own laundry at the age of seven. I figured the puberty thing out on my own. During high school, I’d leave for entire weekends without my dad even asking where I’d been. Then one year at Thanksgiving, my aunt told me that my mother had left me a letter and a video. She got so angry when I told her I’d never gotten it. I confronted my Dad about it, and he said that he ‘remembered something like that.’ He drove me to a safety deposit box—but the box was empty. He couldn’t remember what happened. He had one job. One thing that would mean more to me than anything else, and he couldn’t do it. My mom’s friends always tell me: ‘She would be so proud of you,’ or ‘She was so in love with you. But that’s not the same. It’s not the same as something directly from her. Something she made especially for me. Just one thing that actually says: ‘This is how much I love you.’”
“I’m pretty sure I’m a sociopath. Or something close to it. My parents were pilots, so I spent most of my early childhood on a small island in Tunisia. The only other kids were the children of a local hotelkeeper. I was so isolated that I even invented my own words. By the time I got to high school, I was a monster. I only cared about being the best. I was a bully. I’d argue just for the sake of arguing. I would destroy any belief, just to be right. My behavior is different now. But I think I’m still a sociopath. I’m not sure I feel empathy. But I do always try to make the empathetic choice. It’s an intellectual thing for me. I’m intellectually convinced of the need for empathy. I choose to help other people. I choose to be a reliable friend. I have a wonderful wife who judges me by my actions, and not my reasons for them. Sometimes I feel like Pinocchio. Was he a real boy? Yes, because that’s what he always strived to be.”