The Weight Of Being

 The auditorium was hushed, the kind of silence that feels like a held breath. Twenty-six year old Vedant Joshi, stood under the soft amber spotlight, his Indigo kurta creased at the elbows from nervous palms. Outside, Pune’s October drizzle tapped gently on the windows, like a rhythm trying to remember itself. He looked out at the crowd — students, elders, couples, a few youth with rainbow pins — and began:

I was not born to cleanse your shame,
Nor play the silence in your name.
I was not carved to fit your mould,
Or shrink my truth to make you bold.

I rise not from your fear or doubt,
But from the voice you cast out.
I speak because I still remain
A son, a soul, not just your pain.

The words hung in the air, fragile and defiant. A few heads nodded. A woman in a cotton saree clutched her son’s hand. Somewhere a mother silently wiped a tear. A father shifted in his seat, eyes moist but proud. The gathering was quiet, but not passive — it was a room of people who had learned to listen and accept after years of being unheard.

Few years earlier, Vedant had been a literature student at Fergusson College. Very popular, he was known for his quiet brilliance and impeccable handwriting. He wore FabIndia kurtas and carried a canvas satchel stitched by his mother, Sharvari. His father, Mahadev Joshi, was the General Manager of Maharashtra Gramin Bank, a man of starch and silence, whose reputation in Nashik was built on discipline and devotion. For the past many decades, he started the day with an elaborate pooja. The Joshi family lived in a modest bungalow near Panchavati, where the Tulsi plant was watered daily and the Bhagavad Gita sat in the living room, beside the television remote.

Since childhood Vedant had always sensed that he was different. But, he could neither understand nor explain. Different, not in the way that demanded attention, but in the way that made him watch others fall in love and wonder why his own heart beat faster for the wrong gender. All those school and junior college years, he had kept it buried, like a sacred secret. But secrets, like seeds, grow in the dark.

And sometimes, they bloom into questions you’re too afraid to ask. Or into shadows that follow you even in sunlight.

It was Anand who first saw him. A philosophy student from Aurangabad, Anand had eyes that lingered and a voice that asked questions Vedant had never dared to answer. Their friendship began with shared tea at the college canteen and long walks down Law College Road. One evening, under the banyan tree near the college ground, Anand touched Vedant’s hand and said, “You don’t have to be afraid with me.”

Vedant didn’t speak. But he didn’t pull away either.

The incident that shattered everything came months later. A hostel mate, suspicious of their closeness, had followed them, snapped a photo, and sent it anonymously to Mahadev’s bank’s branch office email. The image was grainy, but damning—two boys, too close, too tender. The next morning, Vedant found his name scrawled on the hostel notice board in red ink: “Joshi is a shame to the room.” Laughter followed him in the corridor. His books were found torn. The warden asked him to “take a break.” He was asked to stay home for a week. That evening Vedant left for Nashik.

Mahadev didn’t confront Vedant immediately. He printed the photo, placed it in a brown envelope, and waited until Sunday.

Sharvari was making poha. The aroma of mustard seeds and curry leaves filled the kitchen. Mahadev walked in, placed the envelope on the dining table, and said, “Explain this.”

Vedant stared at the photo. His throat dried. “It’s not what you think.” He said.

Mahadev’s voice was low, but sharp. “Then what is it? A joke? A phase? A disgrace?”

His fingers trembled slightly, betraying the fury he kept folded inside.

“This is not how men from our family behave. Not in my house. Not in my name.”

Sharvari was too startled to absorb and express. She looked from her husband to her son and back to her husband. Her bangles clinked as she reached for the envelope. “He’s our child, Mahadev. Not a criminal.”

Her voice cracked, but her spine didn’t.

“I carried him for nine months. I won’t bury him for your pride.”

Mahadev turned to her, eyes burning. “He’s a stain. On our name. On our values. What will people say? How will I face my bank colleagues? They’ll say I couldn’t raise a son. That I let impurity walk through my door. They’ll say I failed. And they’ll be right.”

Vedant wanted to scream, but he couldn’t. He felt like a cracked mirror—reflecting nothing, breaking everything.

The next day, Mahadev made arrangements. Vedant was to attend a “corrective retreat” in Satara, run by a man named Guruji Omkar, who claimed to realign “misguided youth.” It wasn’t a choice. It was a sentence.

The center was a faded building near Kaas Plateau, surrounded by wildflowers that bloomed defiantly. Inside, the walls were bare except for framed verses from Manusmriti and a photo of Omkar Guruji with a saffron tilak. Vedant was given a white kurta, a notebook, and a schedule: wake at 4, meditate at 5, write confession letters - paap patra – everyday at 6.

Among the few other inmate’s, one day he was surprised to see Anand there. Vedant was somewhat relieved and anxious at the same time. Anand had been sent by his uncle, a retired IPS officer to cleanse him of his sins. They weren’t allowed to speak freely, but they exchanged glances, notes, and once, a smile that felt like rebellion.

The therapy was brutal. They were told their desires were born of weakness, sin, and Western corruption. They were made to chant mantras, fast, and confess imagined transgressions. One boy was made to touch his father’s shoes and beg forgiveness for “dishonouring his blood.”

Vedant wrote in his notebook:

If love is a disease, then I am terminal,
My heart beats loud, but not seasonal.
If truth is a wound, then let me bleed,
I’d rather ache than fake my creed.

Sharvari visited once. She wore a pale green saree and carried a tiffin of his favorite Methi paratha. She wasn’t allowed inside, so they spoke through a mesh window.

She looked at him, tears brimming. “I didn’t know how to protect you. I still don’t. I prayed for you to be normal. But now I pray for you to survive.”

Vedant touched his mothers fingers through the mesh. “Just believe me, Ma. That’s enough. Because if you don’t, I’ll vanish. And I don’t think I’ll come back whole.”

Mahadev, meanwhile, refused to speak of Vedant. At work, he buried himself in audits and loan approvals. At home, he avoided the room where Vedant’s books still lay.

He told Sharvari, “We must fix this before it ruins us. I’ve built a life of respect. I’d rather lose a son than lose my standing. I won’t let it crumble for sentiment.”

She replied, “He’s not broken. You are. Don’t you love him anymore? You are confusing silence with dignity. But silence is just cowardice dressed in ritual. You’re afraid of love that doesn’t look like yours.”

Weeks passed. Vedant grew thinner, quieter. Anand was caught passing a note and beatings followed. He was sent home. Vedant felt like a ghost in daylight — present, but unacknowledged.

One night, he escaped. He walked through the plateau under a moonless sky, hitchhiked to Pune, and found shelter with a queer poetry collective in Kothrud. They called him “Shabd Bandh” — bound by words. He began writing, performing, healing.

Sharvari found him through a friend. She came to one of his readings, sat in the back, and wept silently. Afterward, she hugged him and said, “I don’t understand everything. But I understand you. Take care.”

Mahadev didn’t come. But he read Vedant’s poem in a magazine. He read it twice. Then he folded it and placed it in his drawer, beside his bank ID.

Almost year later, today Vedant was going to speak at a youth conference. He wore the same indigo kurta, his mother’s satchel slung over his shoulder. As he looked across the small hall and recited his poem, he saw a man standing at the back — rigid, unsmiling, but present.

It was Mahadev.

After the event, they met outside. The rain had stopped. The air smelled of wet earth and possibility.

Mahadev spoke first. “I don’t know why it is like this, but I don’t know how to be your father anymore.”

He continued. “I see you, but I don’t know how to hold you. I hear you, but I don’t know how to answer.”

Vedant replied, “Baba, just be here with me. It's OK if you don't understand me. Just stop erasing me. I’m not asking for approval. I’m only asking for space.”

They sat in silence. Not reconciled, but no longer strangers.
The distance between them was still vast, but no longer cruel.
And somewhere in the distance, the Tulsi plant hoped to bloom again — its leaves still trembling, with the weight of rain drops.