Getting Away and Overcoming the Struggles of Growing Up

Growing up in a middle-class family in Mumbai, my brother and I were more like comrades than just siblings. From an early age, we navigated a home marred by toxicity and violence, our unity serving as a sanctuary amidst the chaos. Our parents' love story began in the early 1970s—a tale of youthful romance that, over time, lost its lustre, leading to a journey fraught with discord. My mother hailed from Maharashtra's picturesque Konkan region, while my father came from the state's western 'sugar-belt,' both emerging from humble beginnings.

Their story began at Jambori Maidan in Worli (Mumbai), where my father first saw my mother—a bold woman in a yellow saree, bright red lipstick, and a sleeveless blouse, contemporary back then. Enchanted, he pursued her, and after years of courtship, they got married. Their relentless hard work was a testament to their determination to make ends meet, a struggle that underscored our family's daily life. After confirming her background, he learned that she was a nurse at a renowned government hospital and lived with her sister in a nearby chawl—a modest one-room kitchen apartment.

He took the first step, finding a way to approach her through a mutual contact, and soon, sparks flew. Their routine lives were taken over by movie nights, drama shows, and fun banter. However, my mother’s family wasn’t entirely thrilled—his fragile financial status raised concerns, leading to criticism and hesitation. Yet, love prevailed, and after years of dating, they tied the knot at Brahmin Seva Mandal in Mumbai. Their journey together wasn’t without challenges. For nine years, my mother struggled with infertility due to PCOD, making conception seem like a distant dream. But with perseverance, medical support, and blessings, she finally welcomed me into the world. Three years later, our family’s joy doubled with the arrival of my younger brother.

Growing up in a middle-class household, my brother and I attended a local convent school in Kandivali, Mumbai. With both our parents working, a nanny cared for us through our early years. As I gather the courage to recall those negative memories from my childhood, feelings of anguish flare my amygdala. As financial stability improved, my once-sober father fell into the grip of alcohol. My mother, a dedicated nurse, often worked night shifts, leaving our home vulnerable to the chaos that followed. Alcoholism, heated arguments, suspicion, accusations, and violence slowly became an unwelcome yet familiar part of our lives. And in the midst of it all, my brother and I bore the heaviest burden.

Sleepless nights became routine, as late-night quarrels echoed through our home. Mornings felt heavy, drained of enthusiasm, yet I still dragged myself to school, hoping for a normal day. But nothing ever really changed—until I got married and found an escape on default. Even now, the memories linger, shadows of disappointment running deep.

The Teenage Vacuum and No-Boyfriend FOMO

When I look back at my teenage years, I feel a void—a childhood robbed of the carefree moments I should have had. At my convent school, most girls in seventh grade had boyfriends, their lively friendships forming distinct cliques. They seemed different from the so-called "good girl gangs"—more daring, more vibrant. And I often wondered what it would have been like to belong.

The so-called "good girl gang" was a tribe of obedient, studious girls—no boyfriends, no drama—just endless discussions about studies, family, and other mundane topics. It wasn’t exactly the most exciting club to be part of, but for me, there wasn’t much of a choice. Raised by a strict father, even the thought of having a boyfriend sent shivers down my spine. And with the chaos at home, romance was the last thing on my mind. So, by default, I found myself in the "good girl gang"—welcomed with open arms, though not exactly thrilled to be there. Meanwhile, there was another group I secretly admired—the Spice Girls of our school. They had all the fun, the juicy gossip, the inside scoop on boyfriends, movies, first kisses, and everything that made teenage life feel exhilarating. While I sat in my safe, predictable circle, I couldn’t help but wonder what it would be like to be one of them.

Being in the good girl gang felt safe, but deep down, I knew I was missing out. The excitement, the attention, the stories of secret crushes—all of it seemed just out of reach. Like any teenage girl, I too longed for validation. But in our little circle, boyfriends were non-existent, and soon enough, I started feeling the No Boyfriend FOMO. Then came ninth grade—and with it, my very first proposal. It was an ordinary evening, and I was out cycling when a guy on his bike suddenly overtook me, stopping right in my path. Startled, I demanded he move aside, but instead, he nervously asked, "Can we be friends?" I tried to steer away, but he persistently blocked my way. With hesitation, I asked who he was, and as he introduced himself, I realized we had a mutual connection. But none of that mattered—I didn’t think twice before blurting out a firm "No."

He was persistent, refusing to back off. After a few relentless chases and some persuasion from a mutual girlfriend, I finally agreed to be ‘just friends’. I helped him with his studies, and we had occasional conversations. It seemed harmless—until one evening near my apartment gate when he suddenly blurted out, "I find your lips attractive and would love to marry you someday." Before I could even process his words, I saw my father approaching. It was the first time he had caught me speaking to a boy, and his expression was anything but pleased. Without a word, he hinted me to go home.

But it was his piercing gaze that shook me—it held a silent warning I couldn’t ignore. That night, under the influence of alcohol, he stormed into my room. In a sudden, drunken rage, he grabbed my leg and dragged me off the cushion where I lay sleeping. I woke up, heart pounding, as he glared down at me. His voice was cold and firm: ‘Never speak to a boy again.’ I was only 14, but that night etched a deep fear in me. Throughout my school and college years, proposals came and went, but I stayed firm in my decision to remain a virgin until marriage. Despite it all, I did form strong and meaningful male friendships—connections that, though were platonic yet lasting.

The Unfulfilled Teenage Desires

My father’s parenting style was strict—rigid to the point of feeling suffocating. While other girls my age enjoyed music, movies, hangouts, and carefree laughter, my world felt confined, like a cage wrapped in invisible rules. I couldn’t listen to the songs I liked, watch TV freely, or have guy friends. Fun, as I knew it, was always out of reach. He controlled even my TV time, granting me a small window to watch Aahat, my favorite haunted show—one of the few escapes I had. Festivals like Holi faded from my life early on; I can barely remember celebrating it beyond Class Six, except years later with my husband. And Garba? That was an outright No. No twirling in a vibrant, pleated skirt. No backless blouse, no stunning makeup, no losing myself in the rhythm of the dandiya beats. That dream remained just that—a dream, left untouched in my father’s unyielding rule book.

Junior college brought a breath of fresh air—no more uniforms, no more mandatory two ponytails. Finally, a sense of freedom! Studying science was intriguing, but fate had a different script in mind. One day, out of the blue, Sandesh Joshi, a small-time Marathi drama director, approached me and few classmates. "Would you like to audition for INT (Indian National Theatre)?" he asked. Without a second thought, excitement surged through me, and I instantly said yes!

Rehearsals soon became a part of my routine, and balancing studies with late-night practice sessions felt both exhausting and exhilarating. My parents disapproved, but I found ways to juggle both worlds. Then came the big night—the final show at Shivaji Mandir, Dadar. The energy backstage was electric, the anticipation thrilling. But as I stepped onto the stage, there was one void I couldn’t ignore—my parents weren’t there. They had chosen not to come. Their absence stung. No words of encouragement, no proud smiles in the audience. As the applause filled the theatre, a bittersweet feeling washed over me—joy for what I had accomplished, but a deep ache for the support I never received.

At my father’s insistence, I appeared for several competitive exams. With a decent CET score, I had multiple college options, but I chose MCC—known for its reputation and proximity to home. Torn between physiotherapy and management, I ultimately followed my instincts and opted for management, having appeared for both medical and management entrance exams. My undergraduate years went by smoothly, paving the way for the next big chapter in my life. During my final year, representatives from various international universities visited our campus to promote their programs. One opportunity stood out, and after getting selected, I found myself flying to Greater Manchester to pursue a Master’s in Human Resources.

Living in an unfamiliar country came with its own set of challenges—being self-reliant, managing finances, juggling housework, and keeping up with academics felt overwhelming at times. But amid the struggles, I found something invaluable—friendship. Surrounded by people from diverse backgrounds, I built strong bonds that I still cherish today. A few of us rented a flat near Hilden Street, turning it into our little home away from home. If there’s one profound lesson my time abroad taught me, it’s that love transcends all boundaries—culture, race, religion. At the core, we are all the same, connected by the universal language of kindness and belonging.

When I returned to Mumbai from the UK, I dived straight into job hunting and landed a trainee position at a well-known company. Just as I was settling into my career, an entirely different pressure started mounting—marriage. My parents and relatives seemed determined to find me a suitable match, constantly nudging, insisting, and burdening me with the idea. But for me, marriage was the last thing on my mind. I had always viewed arranged marriages as the biggest scam. How could anyone commit to a lifetime with a stranger without an emotional foundation? A relationship, in my eyes, needed something real—an emotional connection, shared wavelengths, a sense of comfort, time spent together, and at least some initial dating. The idea of marrying someone without that foundation felt naive, even repelling.

Adding to my scepticism was the broken example set by my own parents’ marriage. Their relationship had been anything but ideal—a disaster that left scars, shaping my perspective on love and commitment. My brother, too, bore the weight of our upbringing. Still unmarried, unable to complete his studies or build a stable career, he continues to heal from the wounds of a childhood marked by neglect and turmoil. Despite everything, my bond with my father was deeply loving. He was a difficult man, but his love for me was undeniable. As a child, I would anxiously call him late at night when he didn’t return home, wait by the door, and even follow him as he left, pleading with him to come back early.

When my parents’ fights erupted in the dead of night, I found myself playing the peacemaker—begging them to stop, trying to hold our fragile world together. On some nights, when the violence became too much, my mother would leave the house in desperation. I would run after her, pleading with her to return, afraid of what might happen if she didn’t. Living in that chaos was a nightmare, yet I never spoke about it to anyone. I carried it silently, hoping—wishing—that my parents had shown more empathy, at least for my brother and me. If not for themselves, they could have chosen peace for our sake. We were good kids. We didn’t deserve to grow up in the midst of so much turmoil.

Breaking Free & Finding My Path

In 2011, fate—or rather, the internet—led me to Kailash. He was the one who initiated the conversation, and soon we exchanged numbers. There was something about his approach that felt genuine, and my intuition whispered, he seems like a good guy.

The first time he called was on August 8—his birthday. We ended up having a great conversation, and I found myself drawn to his voice. What started as occasional chats soon turned into something more frequent, more meaningful. Eventually, we decided to meet. He brought along his best friend, and what followed was an engaging, effortless conversation that left a lasting impression. Beyond appearances, what truly stood out to me was his warmth. He was a PhD student with no stable job, a meagre stipend, no house of his own, and no real savings—but none of that mattered. There was something about his energy, his depth, his kindness. I saw substance in him. And above all, I loved his gentleness.

As our regular calls turned into something deeper and our occasional meet-ups grew more meaningful, the inevitable happened—his family came to Mumbai. Both families approved of our relationship, though there were concerns. His financial situation was unstable, and he came from a small village in Gadchiroli, a region in Vidarbha often associated with Naxalite activities. But despite all the practical doubts, my heart was certain—he was the one. When his family visited my home, what was supposed to be a casual meeting unexpectedly turned into an informal engagement on September 21. Everything felt sudden, yet so right. Since neither of us had enough savings, my in-laws graciously took on the wedding expenses.

Though I had always envisioned getting married in Mumbai, destiny had other plans. Our wedding took place in his hometown, a decision shaped by an emotional reason—his late brother, a well-known politician who had tragically passed away in a road accident, had planned a grand wedding for him. And so, amidst the backdrop of his village, our journey as husband and wife began. I spent a few days in his village before we were set to leave for the UK. He had been awarded a prestigious Commonwealth Fellowship and was heading to UCL, London, to complete his split-site PhD. Meanwhile, I was also exploring opportunities in the UK, hoping to carve out my own path.

Then came our honeymoon night—a moment that filled me with excitement and nervous anticipation. I had butterflies in my stomach, my emotions a blend of joy and apprehension. Though we had known each other well before marriage, we had never crossed the boundary of physical intimacy. That night, our first kiss became an unforgettable memory, a tender moment etched into my heart. As we explored this new chapter together, he surprised me with his gentleness. In a soft, shy voice—one I hadn't expected—he paused and asked, "Can I proceed with the intercourse?" In that moment, I realized once again what a kind and considerate person he truly was. We were both stepping into the unknown, yet his sensitivity and respect made all the difference.

It took me nine months to fly to the UK – and that span was filled with longing, frustration, and moments of doubt. The pain and anxiety I had experienced earlier had created an invisible wall between us, making it impossible to fully share the intimacy we both desired. Yet, his reassurance never wavered; he reminded me that when I finally arrived in the UK, everything would happen at my own pace. As he flew ahead, I stayed back, searching for career opportunities, but the distance weighed heavily on us. Video calls and phone conversations became our only connection, but they could never replace his presence. He grew restless, tired of waiting, and sometimes, our conversations turned into petty arguments—he felt I wasn’t initiating enough, while I, despite staying up late to talk, struggled to bridge the emotional gap. Still, through it all, we held on, knowing that every difficult moment was just a step closer to being together again.

Finally, I secured a scholarship—a tuition waiver—and enrolled in my second master’s program (MBA), making my way back to the UK. The moment I landed at Heathrow, he was there, waiting with a bouquet of roses, his eyes filled with excitement and relief. Our marital journey began in a humble one-room, shared space in Wembley, where love made up for what we lacked in luxury. The honeymoon phase was sweet, though not without its challenges. My lingering anxiety led to a couple of failed attempts, but eventually, in a moment of trust and intimacy, we truly met each other, and I lost my virginity. Life quickly settled into a busy rhythm, with both of us juggling career commitments, often ending our days exhausted. Yet, we always made time for each other—traveling, catching movies, going on spontaneous hangouts, and taking long walks, cherishing the little joys that kept our bond strong.

As responsibilities piled up and a stable career felt like a distant dream, life took us across various cities in India and abroad, constantly uprooting and restarting. But finally, Kailash secured a permanent position in a reputed government firm in Delhi, bringing us a sense of stability after years of uncertainty. Now, 13 years later, I can say with absolute certainty—I couldn’t have found a more loving and gentle soul on this planet. Our journey has been filled with unforgettable moments—heart-racing romance, passionate kisses, and memories so deeply etched that no time can erase them. Every place we’ve lived holds a special nostalgia, a story only we understand. Like any marriage, we’ve faced our share of challenges, but we’ve weathered them together, emerging stronger each time. And as I look ahead, my only wish is to grow old with him, to never tire of his presence, and to keep our love as vibrant as the day it all began.

Conclusion: Scars That Made Me Stronger

Looking back, my journey was anything but easy. A childhood scarred by violence, a teenage life stripped of normalcy, and a youth spent under control left wounds that still ache. But every scar became a lesson, every hardship a stepping stone to resilience. Despite their flaws, I loved my parents deeply—I just wish they had chosen peace, for my brother and me. Standing on my own today, I’ve learned that healing isn’t about erasing the past; it’s about embracing its lessons. Life may have left its marks on me, but I emerged stronger. And that, to me, is victory.

To every girl out there—protect your soul, your body, and your dreams. Don’t give yourself to anyone who doesn’t truly deserve you. In a world obsessed with high body counts and casual hookups, choose to be different. Stay rare. Prioritize your purpose, your emotional and physical well-being. Work hard, carve your own path, and earn your own money. And when you least expect it, God will answer your prayers in ways beyond your imagination—just as He did for me. Believe.

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