The Nani’s Butter and Papa’s Wrath

I. The Two Worlds I Belonged To

I was born in a small town at my maternal grandmother’s home in Shamli, Uttar Pradesh. My actual hometown was Saharanpur, another town in UP. But if you asked my heart where it belonged, it would always say — my Nani’s home.

She loved me deeply, as did my maternal uncles. Back then, life was simple. In fact there were no smartphones, no LCD screens, no social media. Even mobile phones were found bulky and basic. But despite the lack of modern distractions, It felt like my little heart had everything it ever needed.

Going to Nani’s house brought a different kind of joy — even my paternal relatives noticed and sometimes grew jealous of how attached I was to my maternals as well..

Those days were wonderful. I remember walking through the fields with my uncles, playing in the orchard, and sitting with Nani as she made her special kheer and fresh butter from buffalo milk. Nothing in the world ever tasted better.

But this was only one side of my world.

II. Papa’s Unusual Discipline and My Hidden Pain

Back home, things were different — harsher, sometimes much worse.

My father was strict, short-tempered, and rarely smiled. He spent most of his time with his pigeons and their companions. Even after work, he seemed to find more joy in feeding them than talking to us.

Maybe he was just an overly concerned parent, afraid that his children would go astray. Either maybe he was carrying the weight of his own longing that time never honoured or some kind of sadist personality disorder he had.

Whatever the reason, he often yelled at my mother and scolded me for the smallest mistakes — Even Forgetting the 2-times table wasn’t just a mistake — it was a trigger for his wrath. His anger left a deep mark on me. I grew up in fear, always anxious I’d do something wrong.

People mocked me, laughed at me, exaggerated my flaws. Some laughed at my genuine mistakes, while others added spice to my pain just to entertain themselves.

I remained quiet. Alone.

Sometimes my mother consoled me, but most of the time, I cried silently.

No one saw my pain — except me or Almighty Allah.

III. The Long-Term Damage

Being the eldest of five siblings, I bore the brunt of my father’s fury. His frequent outbursts left deep scars on my personality. Over time, I became:

Clumsy, Hesitant, Confused about decisions, Overthinking everything, Afraid to speak up, Afraid to fail and all that.

I started escaping reality. I felt like I wasn’t good enough — as if I was born to mess things up. I internalized the blame, believing that I deserved the harshness I received.

IV. The Invisible Wounds

My father’s discipline or I can say that his insane random obsession, though perhaps well-intentioned, often crossed into cruelty. Small mistakes — like forgetting a multiplication table or spilling something — were met with scolding or beatings.

Over time, fear took root.

I became the quiet one, hesitant to speak, scared of making a wrong move. My siblings seemed free, though it didn’t mean they were spared by his wrath; they too have experienced a few glimpses of his cruelty but not that much like me. However, I felt trapped inside my own head. I avoided decisions, escaped responsibilities, procrastinated, and doubted myself constantly. I overthought everything, played imaginary conversations in my head, and feared being judged for simply existing.

I always struggled to speak up or share my point of view. There was a deep hesitation rooted inside me — as if my words were waiting for permission to exist.

But amidst all that emotional noise, one thing always brought me peace: art.

Since childhood, I was drawn to sketching, crafts, and drawing etc — not because anyone told me to, but because they gave me a kind of happiness nothing else could. A kind of peace that felt rare.

Through my art, I found a quiet confidence, a small voice that spoke without needing words.

And I wasn’t completely invisible — some people noticed.

Like one of my elder cousin’s sisters. She admired my creativity deeply. I still remember the way she appreciated my sketches — her encouragement was one of the few lights in those emotionally foggy days.

V. A Light Entered My Life

But then, something extraordinary happened.

God sent someone into my life who would change everything — a calm, deeply spiritual personality, full of love for humanity, wisdom, and empathy.

He admired children, appreciated people genuinely, and explained divine truths in the simplest of words.

He didn’t just talk — he healed.

Eventually, he became my spiritual teacher — my Murshid.

Through his presence and teachings, I slowly began to understand myself, to forgive, to heal.

He gave me back my voice, my confidence, and my reason to smile.

With him, I learned to befriend the child inside me again — the one who once cried alone.

And for the first time in years, people began to say:

“We never knew you had this in you.”

And I would whisper in my heart,

“I was always this — I just needed someone to see it.”

VI. Finding Peace in the Past

Today, my Nani is gone — it’s been 12 years since she passed away. Even more painfully, eight years ago, I lost my beloved mother to the cruel hands of kidney failure. Her loss left an unfillable void.

But life, with time, has shifted its pace — from chaos to calm, from storm to stillness. I’ve grown — forged through fire and sorrow — into a more mature, grounded man. I’m now married, a father myself, and I see life through a very different lens.

The same father who once scolded me now lives with us. He has mellowed with age.

His nature has shifted — not entirely, but noticeably. He’s more reserved, calmer. He still loves his pigeons, just as before, though now they have different companions — some kind, some bitter.

I remember the good things too — the way he’d drop me at school every morning on his bicycle, how he’d sometimes bring small gifts, how he always found peace in caring for his birds.

Maybe… he just didn’t know how to express love the way I needed.

Maybe… he never received enough himself.

And perhaps, that’s why he struggled so hard to give it.

A Gentle Message for All Parents:

Parenting is like holding a thread — a thread tied to the soul of your child.

Hold it too tightly, and it chokes their spirit.

Hold it too loosely, and they may drift away without direction.

Children are not clay to be molded by force — they are seeds meant to grow with light, warmth, and patience.

Your anger may discipline them temporarily, but your love will shape who they become permanently.

Correct their mistakes, yes — but don’t crush their confidence.

Teach them, yes — but don’t silence their voice.

Guide them, yes — but don’t cage their curiosity.

Behind every quiet child is often a loud wound.

Behind every confused child is often a story of fear.

And behind every hesitant child is a dream waiting for gentle permission to bloom.

Your child doesn’t just need food, clothes, or a roof.

They need your presence, your listening ear, your reassuring smile, your unconditional trust.

Love them in a way that they don’t have to heal from childhood when they become adults.

Because one day, when they look back —

let them remember a home where they felt safe, heard, and deeply valued.

Conclusion: Two Tastes of Life

My childhood was a strange recipe — part sweet, part bitter.

One side was filled with Nani’s butter, her gentle hands, her quiet prayers.

The other side carried Papa’s anger, his loud expectations, his silent burdens.

But maybe… both were important.

Maybe I needed the softness and the fire.

Because without both, I wouldn’t be the man I am today.

“When no one saw my worth, my Murshid did — and in doing so, he gave me back to myself.”

If this story touched even a small corner of your heart, do consider following me for more such glimpses from life’s shadows and light. Your support, thoughts, and kind suggestions mean more than you know. Let’s heal, reflect, and grow — together. That's it from my side Thanks for reading!! Happy parenting❤