Ravi had always been called a good son. Ever since his childhood, he obeyed every word his mother uttered—what to wear, how to sit, even what dreams to chase. When he was ten, he loved painting, but his mother insisted engineers earn more than artists. So, Ravi let his colors fade into old sketchbooks and memorized equations instead.
Years later, as a grown man, he became a husband. His wife, Priya, was thoughtful, expressive, and deeply caring—but she came from a different world, one that believed in equal voices in marriage. “Why don’t you speak your mind?” she asked him often, tired of his agreeable silences. “Marriage isn’t a game of nodding. I want you, not a mirror.”
Ravi found himself stretched thin between two powerful expectations. His mother expected loyalty, tradition, and submission. His wife wanted honesty, participation, and courage. And in the middle of this tug-of-war stood Ravi—silent, smiling, agreeable on the outside, screaming within.
Society didn’t help. It praised obedient sons, patient husbands, and men who “kept the peace” by keeping their mouths shut. “Don’t make your mother cry,” uncles warned. “Don’t upset your wife,” friends whispered. Everyone had advice. No one cared what Ravi actually felt.
One Sunday morning, during breakfast, it all unraveled. His mother criticized Priya for not folding the laundry the “proper” way. His wife, exhausted from always being judged, snapped. “Ravi, say something.”
He looked at both women. Two lives he loved. Two voices demanding his allegiance.
“I’m done,” he said softly, but firmly. “Not with you. But with choosing between you.”
They stared at him in confusion.
“I’ve been a good son. I’ve been a good husband. But I don’t think I’ve ever been a good human being—because I never listened to myself. I only followed.”
A long silence filled the room. His mother opened her mouth to speak, but paused. Priya looked at him with surprise—then relief.
“From now on,” Ravi continued, “I will do what feels right, not what keeps others happy. I will listen—not just to others—but also to my own voice.”
That day marked a quiet revolution. His mother stopped giving instructions like orders and started asking. His wife began sharing more, trusting him to hold space, not just nod.
Society would still whisper. But for the first time, Ravi didn’t care.
He painted again. His first work in years was titled “The Sound of Silence.” It was a self-portrait—half-shadowed by tradition, half-lit by choice.
And for the first time, Ravi felt whole.
Moral:
Being a good son or husband often means following roles defined by others. But being a good human means finding—and following—your own truth, even when it defies the noise of society