Bent, not broken!

What do you do when anger takes over?

For me, 13 years ago, the answer came in the form of a broken jar.

I was frustrated with the argument dad and I were having and I had run out of things to say.

I knew very well that what I was about to do was wrong but I let things unfold in the way that they did anyway.

The plastic container in my hand was definitely going to break if I threw it on the floor.

But I didn't care.

My dad stood about ten feet away, watching with a Zen-like stillness as the oblong box sailed through the air.

His calmness is why I still remember this moment, even though it happened long ago.

To my surprise, and perhaps a little disappointment, I didn’t see anger in his eyes.

Instead, his face held an expression of kindness, maybe even pity.

That container had been in our household forever.
It had carried countless delicious snacks that my brothers and I devoured faster than my parents could refill it.

Now, there it lay between us on the floor, a deep gash running through the jar, the lid shattered to pieces.

That’s when I started crying.

Yes, I cried, quite loudly.
Loud enough that my children would be impressed if they had witnessed it.

This was a completely unnecessary turn of events, and I was fully responsible.

The tears poured relentlessly.

My father said nothing. He simply picked up the broken pieces and left the room.

The next morning at breakfast, I was stunned to see the jar back in its usual spot on the pantry shelf.

He had taped the front and back together and replaced the lid.

I apologized profusely and begged him to throw it away.
I was earning money at the time, and e-commerce was just beginning to take off in India.
With a few clicks, we could have had a brand-new set of jars delivered by the next morning.

He accepted my apology kindly, but refused to get rid of the jar.

His reasons were simple and direct.

First, he believed the jar still had some use.
More importantly, he wanted it to serve as a lifelong reminder that in that moment I had allowed my emotions to dictate my actions.

He remained steadfast.
The jar stayed.

Every time I saw it, I felt a sting in my heart.
I tried to get rid of it once but dad found out.
I tried hiding it and that didn't work either!

Eventually, I made peace with the jar.

I chalked it down as one of the many things lying around in our house that my parents had trouble letting go of.

As kids and later young adults, my brothers and I constantly urged our parents to replace, sell, or discard things we thought were outdated or unnecessary.

To be fair, sometimes they listened, but never impulsively.

Back then, I struggled to understand their perspective.
Now, as I’ve grown older, it’s become clearer.

Three weeks ago, after years of deliberation, my parents sold our childhood home.

The sale of our house took a bit to materialize, so I had time to reflect on the house that I spent the majority of my childhood in, and in all that time spent thinking I found what appears to be a fix to my chronic insomnia.

These days, when I struggle to sleep, I revisit happy childhood memories.It works more often than not.

In the days leading up to the sale, I tried to recreate images of our home in my mind, how things were when we were young.

I remembered our grand bespoke TV shelf.

The dome design, envisioned by our carpenter Narad, a kind man from Uttar Pradesh, was poorly executed at first.
A lot of wood would have gone to waste if my mother hadn’t suggested turning it into a pair of cabinets that served us for years. 

Then there was what I like to call the “Bangalore King” bed—so massive it made a California King look modest.

This bed was born out of a happy accident when an old bed (from my grandparents’ generation) collapsed under the weight of all three of us kids simultaneously hugging Mom and Dad on a peaceful Sunday afternoon after church, by far one of my favorite memories.

Instead of discarding it, my parents had the broken frame repaired and fused with their own bed, creating one enormous family bed. They even had to custom order a mattress to fit its unusual size.

To this day, it’s the most comfortable bed I’ve ever laid my tired head on.

It makes me a little sad to think that the last nap I took in our childhood home before it was sold was on this very bed. 

The lower level of our house eventually became my parents’ clinic after they were unexpectedly asked to vacate their previous premises.

By reusing furniture and equipment, things many, including me, had advised them to throw away, they created a functional and aesthetically pleasing workspace.

Narad, the same carpenter, helped with these and many other projects. Given the amount of time he spent at our home helping out with various things he became a friend to us all.

He was strong and well-built when we first met him.
But over the years, we saw him weaken.
He got thinner, couldn’t wield his tools independently like he used to, and began hiring others to work under his direction.

My father urged him to get tested for tuberculosis, and the diagnosis was spot-on

We witnessed the ups and downs of his battle with TB from a front-row seat.

My parents were a part of his journey till recovery and beyond, doing whatever they could to help.

After many relapses and complications, Narad made a full recovery.

He has remained part of our lives till this day.

I share Narad’s story because I feel in many ways it reflects what my parents were trying to teach me.

For them, it was never about having the latest or best of everything, or everyone.

It was about preservation.

We weren’t rich, but we had the means to buy things.
Still, why throw something away if it still had potential?

Even with Narad, they could easily have hired other contractors and gotten things done sooner or better.
But I remember them postponing projects just to give him time to recover.

He was hurt, but healing, and he had a chance.

They didn’t give up easily.

As a young man, I found it easier to give up on things and friends.

Everything felt replaceable.

But now, I strive to protect and preserve, especially when it comes to the people in my life.

Like many who grow older, my parents have significantly downsized their lives.

To my surprise, my brother managed to sell or donate almost everything I thought would never find a buyer.

It brings a smile to my face knowing that the things we built memories with, including our strangely beautiful house, are now doing the same for other families.

The patched-up jar did eventually get thrown out.
But that was the last time I intentionally broke something.

The lessons live on, and they’ve grown deeper with time.

I’ve come to realize that preservation isn’t just about objects, it’s about relationships, memories, and values.
It’s about resisting the urge to discard what feels inconvenient or imperfect, and instead choosing to repair, nurture, and hold on.

That jar taught me something my father never said out loud:
Strength isn’t in breaking things when emotions run high.
It’s in staying calm, picking up the pieces, and finding a way to make them whole again.

Today, when life feels overwhelming, I think of that jar.

I picture my father’s quiet hands taping it back together, and I remind myself that patience often wins where everything else fails.

We live in a world that celebrates speed and replacement.
But sometimes, the most meaningful victories come from slowing down and preserving what matters, even when it’s easier to start over.

Until next time,

TGV