My Dad, His Death, and the Truth

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I know some people are not pleased about me writing my truth. Some are close to or know my family and have made their opinions known either directly or implicitly.

I want to tell you, who are very dear to me, that it’s okay, I understand. And I empathise with the confusion and hurt you are feeling.

You see, we live in a very complex world.

Violence, male control and entitlement, and submissive women, especially in South Asian households, have been seen as the norm for so long that when a female voice is courageous enough to speak up, even through the backlash, it is, of course, going to send shockwaves through an otherwise seemingly peaceful community.

I wish our world were a planet of peace, and then we wouldn’t have to have these difficult conversations. But unfortunately, it is not.

And I don’t blame you, as I haven’t given you a clear picture of my journey in full. Merry Monk is a blog of posts that I publish as and when I can, and not a complete book. You have every right to form your opinion of me based solely on what I have shared with you thus far.

Finally, perhaps you didn’t know that I asked my family for permission before I started writing my story, and they granted it. I mentioned this in the introduction here. When my brother granted permission, he was doing well. Because of Covid restrictions, he’d been eating fresh home-cooked food; the fast-food places and restaurants he previously ate from multiple times a day were closed. Instead of staying in bed all day, he’d been going on regular walks to the local park and was spending quality time with the family at home. This had made a huge positive impact on his mental health. He thought about it for weeks before giving me an answer. I’d only asked once and let him come back to me about it if he wanted to. He asked me some questions about my trauma, and then he said I could write whatever I wanted about him, too.  A couple of years ago, my sister-in-law also said the same. 

The goal of my writing about my family, myself, and others who have given me permission is to spread awareness and hope that those who need it get the right help.

In 2021, I spent intense months with a family whose daughter had deep psychosis/schizophrenia. We ventured down many avenues to seek her the right help, and I had to be very firm with her family to the point where they probably resented me for a while. But later, they understood, as she made a beautiful recovery. Her schizophrenia is fully managed with medication, regular check-ups, and now, the right understanding and support from her family. 

Unfortunately, due to various factors, including no medication reviews, no therapy, no job/purpose, no daily routine, a return to unhealthy eating habits, and staying in his bedroom all day with no exercise, my brother’s mental health deteriorated. One of the last times that I saw him well, during a rare window of lucidity, he gave me a loving hug and was telling my newly reunited son that if he were to follow anyone in life, he should follow me; that he understands my path and how powerful my guru, Om Swami ji is. When my brother loses lucidity, though, he becomes depressed and often suicidal and angry. He can spend all day alone in his room staring at the ceiling and talking to himself. When he becomes very unwell, he can be aggressive around certain people with whom he otherwise has normal interactions. This includes some neighbours, friends and family; sadly, including me, his only sibling. In the haze of his illness, no matter what anyone says or does, he truly believes, we are the enemy. I don’t take it personally. I know it’s not him, it’s his illness. I can only imagine how traumatising it must be for him to see and hear awful things -frightening voices we cannot hear, apparitions we cannot see. He’s told me numerous times that they are nasty and command him to do things with the intensity of a gun to his head. I first wrote about that here. Nobody should have to go through life living like this.

 

My message about mental health is clear:

Mental health is nothing to be ashamed of.

Mental health doesn’t necessarily destroy families: it’s the misinformation, ignorance, denial, lies and secrets that cause irreparable damage.

 

You may have noticed that I have removed the recent “Shhh, it’s a secret” series that was upsetting to some. It is not my intention to go guns-blazing into these tough topics of mental health, domestic violence and family dynamics. I see, however, that this is how they were received by a handful who are dear to me. My path is one of truth, indeed, but also of compassion, and I do not wish to cause any unnecessary upset to anyone, so I have removed that series and will try to be even more gentle in my approach as I revisit those themes here.

I have also realised since that series that some of my readers think I write because I hold a grudge or out of revenge. I understand that people who have experienced this in their lives may naturally believe the same about my writings, too.

Let me tell you, I do not know what it’s like to wallow in those emotions. I can say, hand on my heart, as I walk closer to the Divine, that I have, of course, been intensely sad and angry, and many other emotions in my life, but I do not covet what others have. Jealousy is not something I’ve ever had to battle with. I do not hold grudges, nor have I ever sought revenge or tried to hurt someone’s reputation in revenge. And I mean never. It’s taken a decade of eye-opening experiences on the spiritual path for me to realise that some people consciously think and behave in this way. 

I am the kind of person who experiences immense joy from seeing someone succeed and achieve great and small things in their life. No matter who they are or what they may have done to me, if someone has worked honestly for something, material, spiritual, or otherwise, whether they have more than I do or not, I couldn’t be happier for them.

It takes all my strength and a staggering amount of hard work to overcome my most traumatic experiences before I can share them here and rise above them. This is no easy feat.

But I am not here to walk an easy path. Nope, not at all.

 

Please remember, I am not writing here only for my journey of healing and self discovery.

I write my hard truths for you and for our race’s daughters yet to be born.

I write for the sons of our world in the hope that at least one can be inspired to see the living Goddess in everyone, especially in the women in their own homes and communities.

 

I don’t care for attention or anything else that some of you may assume I gain from this. I left a very glamorous public life over a decade ago. I had everything that millions of humans dream of, and I gave it all up to live a simple life of meditation, sadhana and service. 

And my intention for sharing my truth remains the same – to inspire satvikta – all encompassing goodness.

I send my love and well wishes to those who cannot see that. Perhaps one day they will, or maybe they won’t. It’s okay. I can only continue the way I know how, with the understanding that everyone has their own perspective.

 I will never please everybody, and that’s perfectly alright with me. 

 

Now, a petit disclaimer here:

Some of what I state in this post will not be pretty, and I do not wish to add to anyone’s mental burden.

If you were fond of my father, and you feel that you would rather not be open to a different understanding of your current reality, may I suggest this is where we part ways for today, and please do something more enjoyable with your time.

And if the more impatient little imps among you reserve judgment for now, the ending and overall message are lovely, in my opinion.

Also, an advance warning, it’s a verrrry long post. I wanted to put it out in one flow rather than as series because the message is the most important thing and it doesn’t all come together until the end.

If you choose to continue, I thank you for your time and your openness to hear our truth – my mother’s and mine. 

May we as humanity move together towards truth, understanding and much, much merriment 🙏🏼

 

 

 

 

My Dad, His Death, and The Truth.

 

 

PART 1

When I left my mother’s house that chilly Friday morning in January to be with my father at the care home in North West London, I had no idea that for the next three days, I’d be wearing clothes other than my monks’ robes and that I’d have no vermillion and sandalwood markings (tilaka) adorning my forehead.

My white attire and tilaka have marked my identity as the Brahmachari (AKA Sushree, or entry level monk) initiated into the sacred and ancient tradition of the Vedas by my revered guru, Om Swami ji in April 2018.

But for those three days, I was someone else; someone who, for decades, I thought I never wanted to be again.

…

In the two years leading up to that day, I was living in England, serving my parents. It wasn’t easy, but I knew it was a duty that I had to fulfil. My brother was dealing with his mental health challenges and couldn’t help my parents.

My father was dying slowly and needed a lot of help and attention. There was no question in my mother’s mind: she wanted to look after him to the best of her ability, right to the end.

And as she is my Mother Divine incarnate, I knew I would support her every step of the way, no matter what. So, after one call from her telling me tearfully that it was all too much and that she couldn’t cope, I flew from the ashram in the Himalayas to be with her in London, England. I felt it was my responsibility to care for my parents when they needed it… no matter what.

 

I’ve repeated ‘no matter what’, but what exactly did my father do?

 

Some of the things, if you’ve read the relevant posts, you’ll know a bit about. But, while he was alive, I didn’t write much of the detail. I didn’t want people to alienate him or retaliate against him. That’s not the kind of person I am.

One of my earliest memories dates back to when I was around five years old.

 

 *For those who have experienced similar trauma of violence as a child or by a loved one,

please either read the following with caution or skip to Part 2 further down the page.*

 

 

I’m sitting upright on my bed, frozen in fear. I can only see my mummy’s upper body, arms and head. She’s on the floor trying to crawl from her bedroom to mine. She’s trying to get away from my daddy.

 

He’s beating her with one of those metal, carpet-sweeper thingys made in the ’70s; bringing it high above his head with both hands and slamming it down on her back again and again, her body is buckling under each blow as she tries to drag herself into my room on her elbows.

 

Another time, my dad held my mum by her neck against the downstairs washroom door, shouting at her, then he finally punched a dent into the door that broke through the wood. It remained there for as long as I lived there and beyond.

 

Once, I was standing on the stairs crying and screaming at my dad to stop as he was dragging my mum by her hair across the hallway floor to the front door,  all the while kicking her in her back and ribs and calling her the most disgusting expletives in Gujarati, our native language.

My mum was wailing and holding on to her head while he dragged her through the doorway; her hair held hostage in his angry fists.

 

Scenes like this were a common occurrence in our house. Even our next-door neighbours couldn’t take it anymore. One evening, while Dad was kicking off with Mum in their bedroom, the doorbell rang, and I ran to open the door in utter relief that someone was coming to save us.

Our neighbour strode swiftly up the stairs. He pulled my dad off my mum and tackled him to the bed. Crossing my dad’s arms over his chest, he held him down firmly. Our neighbour was a tall, strong man, and my dad couldn’t move. Our saviour that night yelled in my dad’s face like I’d seen no one ever do.  His children were trying to sleep, and night after night, there was such a violent racket coming from our house. Enough was enough.

Did my dad stop, though? For a while, perhaps. But then he just hissed his expletives at us instead of shouting and put more energy into the beatings. If we made any noise, you can guess what happened.

 

The hardest memory of my own beatings is the one where my dad is battering me with the wooden pole of a heavy-duty garden broom.

I’m a scrawny pre-teen, writhing around on the living room carpet, screaming as each blow comes down on my body and legs. I’m shielding my head with my forearms, and through the gaps between my arms, I’m looking up at my brother, begging him to help me. He’s looking on and does nothing. His hands are in his pockets.

 

Maybe he was thinking, this is what men do, and this is what girls deserve.

 

My brother didn’t get the same treatment from my father,  and he couldn’t stand up for us when we were being assaulted. I can only assume that he was either crippled by fear or he was brainwashed to the point that he believed my father was doing the right thing, and we deserved it.

 

Once, Dad smacked my head against the car before he shoved me into it.

Once, Dad smacked my head repeatedly against the shower floor.

Once, he hit me so much that I urinated on myself, and then he hit me more for making a mess.

Once, he punched me so hard in the face that my lips split against the braces on my teeth. There was blood all over the kitchen floor.

Once, he swung at the side of my head when I was standing at the top of a flight of stairs, and I tumbled to the bottom.

 

It’s a wonder I didn’t suffer brain damage.

He’s thrown all sorts of things at me, from a ceramic bowl to a VCR machine and a television set.

And then there was the time when he threw me on the couch because I was trying to stop him from pushing my grandmother around.

 

His own mother, yes. He tried to assault his own elderly mother while she was visiting us from Kenya. She was trying to stop him from shouting at my mum. As she tried to intervene and calm him down, he shoved my tiny, sweet grandma out of the way. Then I got picked up and thrown onto the couch for trying to make sure my grandma was okay. The relationship was never the same with her after that, and she died the following year at her home in Kenya, ironically perhaps, in his arms. 

 

All this might be a shock to those of you who knew my dad, I know.

The truth is, my father was not who most of you saw.

 

Outside of the house, he was a master charmer. He managed to convince everyone he met that he was even-tempered, kind, generous and fun-loving. He made friends by pretending to be wealthy, buying rounds of drinks for others, and becoming the life of the party. He thrived on that attention.

That person was not the dad I knew.

My dad could be cruel and selfish; he had no qualms about lying, and he couldn’t for the life of him understand what empathy was. My observation was that he felt no one’s pain but his own. Anything he did for others was for show. He craved the praise and power and would do anything to get it. He despised women and enjoyed invoking fear in us and making us serve his every need.

 

The most horrific act, my mother only shared with me after my father died. I think she knew I wouldn’t have been able to handle it if I’d known this while he was alive. It would have completely broken me, and I probably would have wanted him to pay for it in prison.

She kept this within her for 25 years.

 

It was just days after my mum had undergone a hysterectomy. She’d been discharged from the hospital and was recovering at home. My dad had been out drinking, as he often did.

That night, he came home, threw back her quilt and straddled her (I can only assume what he intended to do or if he had done something like this before). Then he beat her up so badly that she had to go back into hospital to have another surgery.

My mother simply told everyone that there had been complications with her first surgery and she needed another operation. Nobody assumed any different.

 

 

 

PART 2

Before I go on, I’d like to take a moment here to mention that I’ve been told by some people that being slapped by their fathers as children ‘made them tougher’, and that they still felt loved because affection or treats followed and that those who got hit should just get over it. I’m genuinely glad when someone has been able to move past difficult moments without lasting pain. But it still saddens me how often physical punishment is normalised. When something harmful becomes familiar, people start believing it is deserved or simply ‘this is how discipline works’.

The truth is, no form of violence towards a child is ever natural. Human beings are wired for connection, safety, and love. When violence enters a family, it leaves emotional imprints that can echo through generations, even when no harm was intended.

It’s also important to remember that everyone’s experience is different. What feels minor to one person may be deeply traumatic to another. Some children were disciplined harshly but also received affection; others endured fear, neglect, or constant criticism with no comfort at all. Comparing or minimising someone’s pain can wound them all over again. I’m writing this, not to judge anyone, but to encourage compassion — for ourselves, for the children we once were, and for the families who did the best they could with the understanding they had. Healing begins when we recognise that love never requires fear, and that every child deserves gentleness, safety, and dignity.

My mother’s and my abuse was far more nuanced than a few slaps. It was mental, emotional and financial, too, and never-ending. The level of entitlement and control, especially over my mother, was truly inhumane.

Unless he was being pandered to and listened to, and unless my mother and I did everything he wanted exactly the way he wanted it (whether I was living with them or not), my dad just wasn’t happy, and he made his disdain clear, especially of me… well, until I  became an actress in the Hindi film industry, (he was a big Bollywood fan); and the time I donated a kidney to my uncle, his older brother, then he bragged about me to others. But his treatment of me behind closed doors didn’t improve.

I left home at 16 because I couldn’t take the abuse. But why did my mum stay with my dad all these years, you ask? Why didn’t she leave, too?

Because:

All she had known since she was 17 years old was him.

He had convinced her to run away from home and marry him.

Mum had intended to continue her studies and become a nurse (I believe she would have made a fantastic nurse, by the way. She is one of the most caring people you will ever meet). But he wouldn’t allow it. So, she left her studies, her home, her family and friends, and moved with him to a foreign country. She began working in a supermarket, stacking shelves with toilet paper, and then got a steady job in the civil service, and brought up the children while my dad attempted to build this business and that, sending them into debt. All my mother’s earnings went into their joint account, her only account, while my father had other business accounts too, and was in charge of all their spending.

Mum had no savings of her own. Where would she go? What would she do? She was afraid of the unknown.

And she wouldn’t dare ask her family for help. She was so afraid of what they would say. She couldn’t cause them more hurt than she already had by leaving them to marry him.

So, she stayed just as most South Asian women who are subjected to such suppression and violence, unfortunately, do.

They stay, and they shut down.

For a long time, I was angry at my mother for feeling that she failed to protect me. It took time for me to heal from this, too. I now understand her fear and why she did what she did.

She pushed her feelings into a space deep down where they couldn’t bother her any longer and lived her life as quietly as she could – taking the beatings, going to work, taking care of the children, and serving her husband like a God … and his never-ending friends, relatives, clients and colleagues coming home for dinner or coming to stay with them often without notice.

Yes, of course, they had good times. When my dad was loving, he was very sweet towards her… as long as she did everything he wanted, exactly the way he wanted it, and as long as he never had to lift a finger for himself.

 

……..

 

After my father’s most recent heart attack, two years before he passed, the doctors told us that he had only a few weeks to live. Mum opened the doors to their home morning and afternoon for anyone and everyone who wanted to come and see him and say their goodbyes. She served beverages and fresh food to everyone who came.

Can you imagine hosting a tea party with homemade snacks twice a day every single day, without a break, for months, all the while caring for your demanding, at times abusive, unwell husband and son who barely left their rooms?

The doctors had said Dad was dying, but it was Mum who was really dying – on the inside. It was all too much for her. She was breaking down over and over. Thankfully, the palliative-care nurse who came home saw this and got my dad into a wonderful care home so that Mum could have some much-needed respite.

Even then, loved ones judged her. “How can you put your husband in a care home?”

It’s easy to say, but they did not have to endure what she did.

As an example, some weeks before my dad moved to the care home, my parents were both ill with Covid. My dad had uncontrollable loose motions and refused to wear protective disposable underwear. As a result, he messed the bed multiple times a day and made my mother, who was extremely ill with the virus herself, clean him and wash and change the bedsheets and his clothes each time. He didn’t care about adding to her workload, although she was very ill herself.

When I telephoned him to try to convince him to wear disposable underwear, he said, “I can’t wear those, because I am Vipul!” (His name was Vipul.)

His lack of regard didn’t stop at just the women, either. He had no respect for the medical profession either.

For example, he’d told his doctors he’d quit smoking when he hadn’t. A few years ago, on a previous occasion when he was very unwell, I’d flown to England from the ashram to help serve him, and I discovered he was lying to the doctors. I didn’t ask him to stop smoking; I knew he wouldn’t. However, I did tell him I could no longer serve him and attend his appointments with him if he continued with his dishonesty. I walk the path of Truth, and it goes against my principles to lie or to feed into someone else’s lies.

I tried to help him understand that medical professionals spend thousands of hours year after year studying and gaining experience to help us. I hoped he would be truthful, because a) it’s the right thing to do, and b) so that the doctors could treat him accordingly. But my dad was happy to lie and beg them for NHS medication, treatment and surgeries, while still abusing his body.

With a heavy heart, I gave him an ultimatum: “Tell the doctors the truth or don’t expect me to help you anymore. Don’t expect to see me or talk to me again.”

Yep, you can guess what he chose.

With my mother’s blessing, I returned home to the ashram.

I didn’t hear from my father for over a year until he had that last heart attack two years before he passed. He was on the phone to me from the hospital, begging me for my help and my guru Om Swami ji’s blessings.

And so, I put the past behind me, yet again, and came back to help my family.

 

 

 

 

PART 3

When I arrived in England, I wasn’t able to stay at the family home.

There is a very real reason why I couldn’t stay there, and not the story that was made up for me. People were told that I needed a quiet place to meditate and that my family home, as a busy, loud household, wasn’t a suitable environment for me.

The truth is,

My brother had been so unwell that at times he didn’t recognise his own parents or me. When he was in a state of acute psychosis, the sister who was once his best friend became the enemy in his mind.

Many years ago, before my brother’s marriage, when I tried to move back in with the family, my brother’s verbal assaults turned physical toward me for the first time. Back then, I had an overly protective partner who stopped my brother, unfortunately, responding in kind and hurting my brother. I didn’t ask him to do that. He jumped in when he saw how my brother was behaving toward me. The relationship with my partner didn’t last long after that.

Another time, my parents were away, and my brother and I were alone at home. I was wrapped in only a towel as I’d just stepped out of the shower. All of a sudden, he came at me angrily and shoved me. I felt humiliated because my towel came off. I wasn’t going to allow him to turn into another version of my father, so I called the police, just as I had to do a couple of times with my father.

My father believed my brother’s version of events and made it clear I was a shame to the family, yet again. With nowhere to live after that, I was given a place in a women’s refuge in London run by a charitable organisation for South Asian women fleeing domestic violence. (I’ll write more on this another time.)

When he’s had an episode of psychosis and he’s been aggressive toward me, my brother’s mind tells him he hasn’t done anything wrong. He manages to convince others that it’s my fault, and for years, my parents believed him.

He also blames me for his illness (when he admits he is unwell). He believes that with magical powers, I started the voices in his head while he was at the police station that day. He doesn’t remember that he had to be hospitalised for schizophrenia symptoms long before this.

My parents called me when they first realised their son was seriously ill and didn’t know what to do. He was in his mid-twenties then. I took him to hospital and liaised with the doctors, and along with my mother, got him on a path to stability. After his discharge, it wasn’t an easy road. At times, he had episodes, and at times, he remained stable for longer periods. He did well when he was taking his medication, attending appointments regularly and going to work.

During a good period in his life, he even found his beautiful soul mate and fell in love. We were all open and honest with her about his illness; my brother’s bride-to-be said it didn’t matter, and that she loved him regardless. So tenderly, she said that he must have taken care of her in a previous life and that she was born in this life to take care of him.

They got married and lived together with my parents in the family home. My parents and their new daughter-in-law became my brother’s carers together. Their role: to love him, of course, and to help manage his lifestyle, medication and therapy. It’s just like if someone has a heart attack, they need to make certain lifestyle changes, take medication and have regular check-ups, without which, the heart would become damaged more quickly – with certain types of mental health, it’s the same; the brain has had a brain attack and needs regular care to avoid further damage. Sometimes, the patient cannot manage these themselves, so their carers help them.

I kept in touch with my family while I was living in India, and I learned that my brother was quite up and down. My parents and his wife, too, had to call the police at times when they couldn’t handle him themselves. The police arrived each time with the crisis team, who are mental health specialists.

It was a shock to me when I returned to England to serve my parents and saw what I can only describe as the hell my parents and brother were living in. Of course, my mother was having breakdowns, and of course, my father’s heart was overburdened.

I tried to visit my family regularly to help them and spend quality time with them. We even tried to begin weekly meditation sessions at home with my cousins and nieces. My brother didn’t join in and quickly became agitated about it. After just the second week, we had to stop the meditation sessions.

And I saw more disrespectful behaviour in general, even towards our parents. I was shocked beyond belief to witness, one day, for instance:

My mother and I had taken my father to the hospital for an appointment in my mother’s car. I was taking the wheelchair out of the car boot and helping my father into it when my mother’s phone rang. It was around midday, and my brother had just woken up; he was hungry.

Instead of asking how his dad was doing or what the doctor said, my brother was annoyed at my mother. How dare she leave the house without cooking lunch for him, and worse still, how could she take the car with her? He said he was starving, and there was nothing to eat, even though the pantry, cupboards, fridge and freezer were always full of food. He then said he needed the car to go and pick up a takeaway (he and his wife also own a car, by the way, that she uses for work, and my brother could drop her off at work and have the car for use in the day). Frustrated with Mum’s response that we were at the hospital with his father, my brother hung up on her. My mother didn’t bat an eyelid. She was sadly used to this behaviour.

And my brother was no longer only aggressive towards m only during an episode, by then, it was practically all the time.

There were times I had to literally run from him: from the car if we were travelling together, in a public street when we’d been out somewhere, and at home, numerous times, I had to shut myself in another room or only go early in the morning when I knew he’d still be asleep. I used to go there sometimes while he was asleep to cook for the family and lift some of the burden of my mother’s daily tasks. I was always on edge that my brother might wake early while I was there. It took all of my mindfulness practices to stop my anxiety from going through the roof.

There were times when he woke up, and I had to run out of the house. In winter, I’d lock myself in my mother’s car to feel safe. I wasn’t insured on the car back then, so I couldn’t drive off. My brother would follow me out of the house and bang on the car window, shouting awful things like “F***ing b*tch!” and “Wh*re!” at me.

Incidents like this began to happen more recently in front of my parents and, FINALLY, after years, they understood it was my brother’s illness and not me provoking him.

 

Why had his illness gotten so bad?

Well, among other reasons, he refused therapy, he stopped having regular check-ups and hadn’t had a medication review in years. He wouldn’t listen to our parents, and for years, they lived in a constant state of heightened stress. So much so, I believe, they got used to it, accepting it as their new reality. Even after each serious episode my brother suffered, nothing was done. The family waited for it to blow over and then pretended like it never happened, perhaps not understanding what he was really going through and that each time, his brain was under attack and in danger of becoming more damaged.

The only person who had the power to convince my brother to get therapy, attend appointments and take his medication was his wife.

Part of the problem, though, was that she hardly saw the darker side of his moods as she was at work during the week. Also, his wife is the centre of his world, and perhaps the fear of losing her makes him act like a totally different person in front of her. Only the thought of her motivates him to get out of bed and be showered and dressed. He is so happy when they are together and go out to get treats, snacks, lunches and dinners. Every day, he tells his wife how beautiful she is and how much he loves her. He is his kindest, wittiest self around her.

He also visits his in-laws regularly and goes on multiple holidays a year abroad with their family. Around them, he is on his best behaviour. They didn’t know he has schizophrenia as his wife hadn’t told them. Around them, he would shut out the voices and hallucinations by distracting his mind, for example, by playing with his nephews and nieces, stepping out for a cigarette, or getting some food. Sometimes he would become very quiet or make an excuse to leave; they just assumed he was tired in those moments. Around his in-laws, there is no trace of aggression. They too see the best version of my brother. They love him and treat him with so much tenderness, and he, in turn, glows with the love he has for them. It is a joy to know his soulmate and her family make him so happy. These moments of devotion, I suppose, though, make it harder to see the truth.

My brother’s wife once told me, very innocently, for example, that all the doctors are wrong, that my brother has autism and is simply stubborn. She is not a medical professional nor a mental health expert; she works in a nursery with three-year-olds, and my brother’s general behaviour can be like that of a grumpy three-year-old at times. Some of her nursery class are indeed on the autism spectrum, and she seems to identify with my brother through those lenses; it gives her infinite patience with him, but perhaps also conceals the darker reality of his mind.

Above, I suppose, are some of the reasons why my brother didn’t get the regular support he desperately needed. There is nothing sinister about it. There is no one person to blame, either. If a person believes a problem doesn’t exist, then nothing needs to change, and the ignorance, misinformation and stigma surrounding mental health force so many of us to hide behind denial, untruths and cover-ups.

 

……………….

 

For those of you who might believe my brother’s illness is not mental, but spiritual, I absolutely believe that for some it can be. I fully believe in the spirit world through my own experiences and that some of us are channels for both positive and negative entities.

I also know that my brother has a strong connection with the spirit world. He can be highly intuitive, for example. He has had moments of brilliance and clairvoyance that have astounded me. But I also know that if it were a case of spirit attachment or the like on my brother, my guru, and my connections with the spirit would have made it clear to us. It may even be easier to heal from that than this. I agree there is a possibility that my brother’s case could have started out with spirit attachment in dark, vulnerable moments in his trauma. But too many years have passed without any therapy, self-work, a structured daily routine, a good diet, exercise, or proper medical management. We have all seen that without medication, his brain cannot function properly and is a danger to himself and others.

When I realised that the person who was once my brother and my best friend growing up was gone, I mourned him. But then it felt like he had come back, but not as my brother, but as an angry ghost of his former self, here to haunt me.

….

I hope you can understand now the reason I couldn’t stay at the family house when I came to look after my parents.

I stayed instead in rooms in other people’s houses, offering to pay minimal cover, whatever I could afford. There are some extremely kind souls to whom I will be indebted forever. Thank you, beautiful people, you know who you are!

I wasn’t making enough in donations on my blog to survive in London (one of the most expensive cities in the world), so I had to sign on for government benefits and sell my wedding gold, some of which I had gifted to friends and relatives and the rest to my mother. I didn’t know she had kept it safe for a rainy day; smart woman. I fought back tears in the local benefits office. I couldn’t believe my life had circled back to this. The last time I’d stood there, I’d been homeless and penniless after my separation from my husband and was trying to get back on my feet. Here, I found myself couch surfing again, desperately selling my belongings, and signing on for benefits yet again.

My parents owned their beautiful, large house in a leafy suburb of London, but they lived frugally. My father was retired with no private pension, and my mother had left her civil service job years before retirement age due to stress-related illness and was dog-sitting for a little extra cash here and there. Every penny of hers went towards the family’s daily needs, and she hadn’t had a holiday in years.

My brother and sister-in-law used to work with my father in the family business, but it went bust, so my sister-in-law went back to working in a nursery, telling my mother that, as she went out to work, it was her money for only herself.

My brother did nothing much but eat, smoke and sleep.

How did they all manage to survive then?

And as it turns out, my brother’s lifestyle of a pack of smokes a day, multiple restaurant meals a day and multiple luxury holidays a year with his wife, plus the main bills of the house were being funded out of my pocket.

And I had no idea about it.

Yup.

You see, I’d unknowingly given them every penny I had.

How?

 

 

 

PART 4

In October 2010, I donated a kidney to an uncle, one of my father’s older brothers. Nobody could have guessed that a year later, he would pass away from pneumonia, and that his wife, my aunt, would soon follow, losing a battle with cancer.

They left me a sizable nest egg. Enough that I wouldn’t have to worry about money for the rest of my life if I invested it wisely and lived simply, and just under the U.K. inheritance tax cap; so you can gauge the amount.

All I know is that my father told me it was invested in bonds on my behalf. I signed whichever documents he asked me to. Even though he was a harsh man to me, I felt I had no reason not to trust my own father with money. I couldn’t imagine a parent would deceive their own child for money. The thought never crossed my mind. Also, my father knew a lot about financial matters, and I was clueless.

At the time, I’d just finished my law degree, but I’d already figured out I didn’t want to practise law. I realised it was too much of a cutthroat world for my sensitive nature.

I’d lost hope with my children; my ex-husband had turned them against me. Carrying my wounds close, I was coasting aimlessly. I lived with my cocaine addict boyfriend in London. In the haze of my grief, I became an addict myself. I was working a few nights a week as a door entry person at some of the city’s nightclubs, living an otherworldly life of booze, drugs, millionaires, billionaires, models, sports icons and celebrities whom I met through the VIP nightclubs I worked in. I was desperate for some direction. I wanted to change my life, but I didn’t know how, what to do, or where to go.

With this blessing from my uncle and aunt, a world of possibilities opened up. And then, through the nightlife network, I met a famous Bollywood director, and he gave me an opportunity to move to India to model and act in films. (I’ll write a whole post on this later.)

I quit all the nightclubs, said goodbye to everyone I knew and moved to Mumbai, safe in the knowledge that I had my nest egg and could pursue my creative inclinations.

I never received any official dividends from the bonds, by the way. If I needed money while I was still getting settled in Mumbai, my parents sent it to me. I have no idea how much was coming in each month or where it went.

A few years later, I found my guru and my true calling. I left Mumbai and the media industry and settled at the ashram in the Himalayas. (I’ll also write about this in more detail later on.)

In August 2017, my brother and sister-in-law came to visit me, and I was over the moon to have them there. Simple ashram living wasn’t quite their style (I mean, I was living in a mud hut), so they stayed in a hotel in the next town and commuted daily to the ashram by taxi. We had a wonderful time; my brother and I danced in the temple together during the kirtan with my guru. I felt we’d finally bonded. I was on cloud nine.

On the final day of their trip, though, reality came hurtling at me through the Himalayan air.

My sister-in-law asked me for a loan of about a third of my nest egg to help her and my brother set up a new venture of their own. She said they were going to manufacture school supplies.

I thought it was wonderful that they wanted to pursue something useful for children, but my heart sank, realising it wasn’t time with me they wanted, it was my money.

My condition was that this new business would have nothing to do with my father. They assured me it was solely their project and had absolutely nothing to do with him.

And so, I said yes, blissfully unaware of what they had indeed planned with my father all along.

I’d have done anything for my sister-in-law. She was not only my brother’s wife, but I considered her my sister and dear friend. I looked up to her, loved and trusted her beyond comprehension, and my father knew it. And his years of conditioning my family’s minds to his will perhaps made my brother and sister-in-law believe they weren’t doing anything untoward by coming to the ashram and asking me for money without the purest intention. In innocence and trust, I left them a way to have access to my investment.

My sister-in-law said they’d pay me back a certain sum every month until it was paid off. Within the first month, however, I received emails from her saying they couldn’t afford to give me anything back. Unbeknownst to me, they hadn’t set up a new business at all. It had been injected straight into my father’s existing business, where the three of them worked together.

And this company came about because of my marriage in the first place. This was the factory that my ex-husband and father had set up together. When I got divorced, I didn’t take a penny from my ex, but he and my father had an agreement about the business,buisness and my father took full control of it. After that, I no longer existed in my father’s world. I believe once he got what he wanted, he disowned me for getting divorced, made my brother a CEO, and gave his wife a position in the company. My marital family business was handed to my brother and his wife on a plate. In her emails, my sister-in-law acknowledges it’s my money and that not paying me back as agreed isn’t right, but she kept saying that their hands were tied. I still have these emails.

I wrote to my father telling him I wished to be in control of my bonds. I told him I planned to sell whatever was left and invest in a small property in England. Instead of the drips and drabs he sent me when I asked for money. A property in my name would give me a steady income. I could easily live off that in India and focus solely on the life of sadhana and selfless service that I had chosen for myself. I even sent him listings of studios and 1-bedroom properties to take a first look at on my behalf.

My father told me he was dealing with it. For about a year, he wrote emails saying he was trying to release the funds, but that it would take time. Then he finally wrote to me saying my investment bonds had collapsed and also that his business had gone bust.

He said all my money was gone.

And I believed him.

I wrote to my guru Om Swami ji to tell Him I was struggling with my daily needs. Swami ji graciously offered to help me financially. He also guided me towards writing and editing work that helped me stay afloat. All the monks at our ashram have a way to earn an income in a meaningful way in line with our dharma.

 

 

 

Part 5

Naturally, when I came back to England to help serve my dad before he died, I didn’t know there was any money. And the thought of inheritance never crossed my mind. My mother was still alive, so why would there be any inheritance? Everything my parents had should go to her, I assumed. Well, my brother thought differently. Mothers didn’t matter. Only fathers and sons did, apparently.

Within a couple of months of my arrival, with Divine Grace, the truth came out. My investment had not collapsed at all. It was, in fact, very much alive and growing in a commercial property that my brother and sister-in-law were in control of and were renting out. My father, brother and sister-in-law had run their manufacturing business into the ground, and, so, in desperation, they went after my investment, cleared out my entire account and used it as a down payment for an expensive commercial property.

They never needed to deceive me. Had they asked me, I would have said yes, just as I’d already said yes to the first ‘loan’. The mistake I made was not having a written agreement with them. Everything was based on trust. They could have included my name when buying the commercial unit in the first place. We could all have benefited from it equally. I’d have been more than happy with that, even though I had cause to be cautious about joining business affairs with my brother.

You see, he had dealt with a very serious gambling issue in the past. It was a side effect of his trauma and mental illness, which sadly led to unfortunate financial outcomes, forcing him to remortgage our childhood home. He drew vast amounts from it and lost it all in online betting. Despite this, I harboured no ill will toward him. I understood the gambling was linked to his mental health and trusted that my sister-in-law would ensure nothing like that ever happened again. I only learned recently that the house had been transferred into my brother’s name by my father. It was put on rent when they moved into the new family home. My brother received it mortgage-free, and the rental income went to him. That, plus the rent from the commercial property, was funding his lifestyle.

When the truth came out, my father came clean and told me everything in detail: that he took all of my investment without telling me and put it into his business and the commercial unit. Perhaps he wanted to clear his conscience before he died. He told me all the ins and outs and how much my brother was earning each month. I was astounded. I could only dream of that much. I have never even had a credit card of my own, and there was my brother, a pro at taking out mortgages and remortgaging properties that had been handed to him on a plate, bulking out his pockets with thousands of £’s each month.

“You are paying for his paneer,” were my father’s exact last words to me on this topic.

 

….

 

Woah! No wonder my brother’s mental and physical health had deteriorated!

He no longer needed to do anything to earn a living. He had no passion or hobbies aside from smoking cigarettes and eating paneer, McDonald’s, and other junk food daily. He was in a deep depression on top of the psychosis/schizophrenia diagnosis.

You don’t need a professional to tell you that even a mentally sound person’s mind and body would deteriorate if they stayed in bed all day, doing nothing but looking at the ceiling, talking to themselves, and eating rich takeaways and junk food multiple times a day, for years on end.

I have dedicated my life to helping people heal their minds. This is my biggest passion and area of expertise now. My brother’s mental health was deeply affecting us all to the point where my parents were hanging on to life by a thread. How could I live knowing my parents were so stressed and my brother was rotting away like this and do nothing about it?

 

 

 

PART 6

Too many mental health patients suffer alone, and my brother is so blessed to have his wife. For six years, I gently voiced my concerns to her. I begged her to get him the right help, at least a medicine review as a start. I gave suggestions and advice based on my experience with other schizophrenia patients that I had helped.

In conversation with me, she always apologised for my brother’s behaviour and said I was right, that he needed the medicine and to have something to do every day; maybe look for a job, something simple that would bring him joy.

We talked about her helping him with his CV and job hunting. We talked about my brother’s passion for food, and I suggested that he could be given a little responsibility to go grocery shopping and cook for the family at least one day a week to begin with, to give my mother a much-needed break. In that conversation, my sister-in-law again agreed with me, but then nothing changed. This was a common pattern. A conversation about helping my brother – she apologising for his behaviour and telling me that I’m right – and then nothing happening. No appointments booked, no lifestyle changes made, and my brother and parents continuing to suffer.

One day, my brother was talking to his wife on speaker phone, perhaps he did not realise our mother was at home. They were discussing my mother and me, and saying unpleasant things about us both. They seemed to have convinced each other that it was me, not my brother, who needed to get a job.

I had a gentle conversation with my sister-in-law after this. I explained to her that I have a job that I’ve been working at for almost a decade. I have taken formal vows as a monk to walk the path of Sadhana for the betterment of others. It may not be a conventional vocation, and it may not pay in cash, but it pays in peace and smiles, and I was more than okay with that. I also explained that during my time in England, I was caring for my parents full-time; another job that didn’t pay my bills but fulfilled my duty and filled me with peace. I had no time during my service to my parents to continue my writing and editing work; otherwise, I was bringing in a little income for myself through that.

I wondered why they believed I needed to change my entire life, leave the monkhood and get a conventional job, so that my wallet could continue to fund their lifestyle? My sister-in-law and I both take Swami ji as our guru, and I live my life according to His guidance and instructions. If Swami ji had ever told me to break my vows and do something else, get a more conventional job, I would have done it in an instant. Perhaps she thought she was better informed than Swamiji about how I should live my life.

I told her openly that my mother had overheard the things that she had said about us on the phone to my brother, and she looked mortified. I immediately told her that it didn’t mean I agreed with her, but I understood why she felt that way and that it was okay. Her exact response was, “Diya ji, you are so compassionate.” She said it over and over again, almost in tears.

Weeks went by, and my brother was still deteriorating and still holding on to the idea that I had to get a job while nothing about his life needed to change. And so, I asked my sister-in-law to be honest with her family. She’d kept the issue of my brother’s mental health from them since the beginning, saying she didn’t want to worry them. My brother loves and respects her family so much that I felt, if they knew the truth, they could help him.

I understood she didn’t want to worry her parents, especially her beautiful, tender-hearted mother, whom I love so much. I asked her to at least tell her brother. He’s intelligent, disciplined, works out regularly, eats healthily, is a wonderful parent and a hard worker. I may be wrong, but I feel that if he had known since the beginning, it could have been life-changing for my brother. But she refused to tell him.

Perhaps you could understand that my frustration was building up and up. Too many wasted years seeing the hell my family were living in and feeling that the one person who had the power to make a change wasn’t doing anything about it.

The morning after the last and most hurtful abusive attack on me by my brother, in a total last-ditch attempt, with the best intentions, I ended up raising my voice at my sister-in-law for the first time ever. I shouted at her on the phone, ending with “FOR GOD’S SAKE, PLEASE HELP MY BROTHER!!” My lungs were probably shocked at the volume of my voice. No doubt, it shook my sister-in-law.

I never got personal, I never said anything mean about her. I was firm with her, just as I was with the parents of the girl with schizophrenia whom I mentioned earlier. But I did finally speak up about them coming to the ashram and duping me into giving them my life savings. I also called her out on all the daily little lies and cover-ups that were destroying my family. It had to stop.

Perhaps I didn’t have to mention the money. Perhaps I could have kept on topic and focused only on my brother’s health. Perhaps I could have reined it in and not shown her my ‘Ma Kali side’ (a term she’s coined for whenever she shouts at my brother), but I’d had enough, and I believe that the mess with the money and my brother’s mental health are tied together. I felt that if my brother were well, he would see clearly and not be so blinded by the stories his mind created about money. And so, everything came spilling out at once.

Perhaps the blessing in disguise came when my brother’s illness reached a point that he couldn’t control himself in front of his in-laws anymore, either. He had an episode of psychosis while on holiday in Mexico with them.

I was extremely worried about him when I heard about it. If he couldn’t hold it together around his in-laws anymore, it meant he was more unwell than ever, and dangerously so. I could not believe they let it blow over and carried on with their holiday, believing the stories my sister-in-law told them that either the heat had gotten to him or that someone had spiked his drink.

When I heard this. My head was exploding with thoughts like, “Why is it okay to protect your parents while mine are dying?! No more lies! My brother’s health comes first!”

I demanded my mother book an appointment for my brother so that he could be seen as soon as possible after landing back in London.

Thankfully, although my sister-in-law had been resisting all these years, that episode and the pressure from us finally gave her a push to make my brother attend the appointment.

And, finally, he did!

It was all I wanted. My brother had a proper assessment. The doctor said the dosage of the medicine he’d been on for years was doing nothing for him. My brother was given a change of medication, including something to help him stop feeling so sad and angry and give him some energy to get out of bed during the day.

Now, because he and his wife don’t have my mother to do most of their chores anymore, my brother is not rotting in bed every day. His wife goes to work in the school every weekday, and so my brother takes care of their flat; he cooks, cleans and does the laundry. It gets his body moving and gives him purpose. Because they are more cautious about money now, they no longer spend as much on takeaways and junk food. I don’t know if he’s started therapy, but I’ve heard my brother has lost weight and is doing better physically and mentally than he has in years! This is all I wanted for him! His life has changed drastically, and I couldn’t be happier for him!

 

Sadly, for my sibling relationship with him, though, it seems it’s too late.

Because, after I confronted my sister-in-law about the money, any hope of the family overcoming our issues and coming closer together was blown to smithereens.

Previous to that day, as a family, we’d had several meetings with professionals, financial advisors and accountants, and all had concluded that it would be just to either pay me back directly or add my name to the company and share the income from the commercial unit. My mother has a small share of it in her name, but doesn’t receive a proportionate income from it. My brother and sister-in-law are the majority shareholders. They receive a salary from it, plus dividends and the rent. The idea was to sell the large family house, pay off the mortgage on the commercial unit, and share the income proportionately and fairly. It meant I would be returned what was taken from me with some interest added, but I would not receive anything in inheritance. I was okay to accept that. I’ve simplified the situation here, but this is the gist of it.

After I confronted my sister-in-law, everything changed; she refused to add my name or pay me back and convinced my brother of the same. She also stopped talking to my mother, telling people that my mother and I are being unfair.

My mother sold the family home (my brother and sister-in-law by their own decision had already moved out by then, and my father was living in a care home). From the proceeds of the sale, she returned to me what would have been my original investment, and I finally bought a little property and put it on rent. In full transparency, I receive about £1000 a month in my pocket each month, leaving a little in savings for repair works and any future tax to pay. It’s not much to live off in England, especially in and around London, but it’s the steady income I desperately needed. I closed the donations page on my blog because I couldn’t justify taking donations for my survival anymore when I had a regular income of my own. Thank you SO SO Sooooooo much to all those who supported me. Perhaps you understand now just how much I needed it.

Together, my mother and I found a beautiful, much smaller and manageable home outside of London to live in together. It’s small, but in a quiet, safe location. Finally, a home of safety and peace for my mother and me. I can take care of her the way she deserves. My mother paid me back out of her pocket, even though she wasn’t one of the ones spending my investment. She didn’t have to do that for me, but Ma is Ma, right?

Together with my rental income, my mother’s pension and a little invested for our future, we are content.

The ones who are benefiting from my investment, though, I wonder sometimes if they are content.

They said they want my mother’s share of the commercial unit and don’t want to pay her what she’s due. They also borrowed more against the unit without my mother’s knowledge. They thought then that the proceeds of the sale of the family home were going to pay off the rest of the mortgage of the commercial unit, and nobody would notice the £20,000 jump in the amount to be paid off, but plans changed, and the truth came out.

Even though we discovered they had taken another loan deceitfully, we were and are still ready to forgive everything for the sake of the family relationship.

No matter how many times we requested to meet and talk with my sister-in-law, though, all efforts to extend her an olive branch were rejected.

We tried to reach out to her family to open the lines of communication between us. First, I reached out to my sister-in-law’s brother. I sent him a text saying that I wanted to meet with him and talk about something important that was affecting the family. I got radio silence from him and then he blocked me.

Had he agreed to hear me out, we would have had to keep trying to resolve this with the other family members.

With no other avenues left to open up communication, when my father was alive, even though he was very unwell, in absolute desperation, he and my mother went to their house to discuss the situation. My father explained that he had taken what was not his and created this mess. Tearfully, my mother tried to explain that her son was ill and that’s why he didn’t understand that he had to return the money.

My sister-in-law’s family were nice to my father and said he had nothing to apologise for. Towards my mother and me, though, instead of being open and understanding, we received a very surprising reaction and were told never to go there or talk to them again.

When my sister-in-law’s family came to say their final goodbyes to my father at the care home, I was resting in the bed next to him. Upon opening my eyes, I was so happy to see them there, I got up, smiled and folded my hands in a Namaste. They responded by averting their eyes with stern faces, ignoring me completely. I was again surprised, but I understood they needed space to visit with my father, so I quietly stepped outside. After their visit, as they were leaving, they passed my mother in the hallway. She greeted them too, just as I had, but they put their faces down, refusing to acknowledge her and marched out.

My mother was going through enough as it was, and their behaviour that day broke her. It was partly because of them that she decided not to have a traditional funeral for my father. She couldn’t have handled their behaviour on a day that should be about support and love.

Up until I confronted my sister-in-law, my family had a fantastic relationship with her family. My mother, especially, was there for them in times of need. My mother had been extremely supportive when my sister-in-law’s mother was in a coma after major surgery. She had helped her during and after her recovery and always treated her with immense respect and care. I had a great relationship with them, too.

But overnight, we became the enemy.

 

We were both completely shunned.

And shunned not only by my sister-in-law’s family, but in one fell swoop, other family members and some friends changed the way they interacted with us. Some verbally attacked us and my writing, and made it clear to us that they thought we had done something wrong. Some have completely stopped calling or visiting my mother at all, like they used to.

I do wonder sometimes, if it had been a stranger who attacked us the way my father did, would they behave the same way? If it had been a stranger who duped me and took advantage of us financially, would our loved ones distance themselves from us? Perhaps they might offer words of support and urge us to seek justice instead. Acts of violence and theft are classed as illegal for a reason. They are crimes against humanity. So, I wonder why, just because it is my family committing such acts, that my mother and I are deemed worthy of punishment. Is standing up for ourselves after being victims of such abuse a crime?

I have also been alienated from my family in England. For example, I was not invited to the annual Christmas lunch with my cousins. The excuse was that they ‘forgot’ to invite me. Even though it came to light days before the lunch, no one called to apologise and invite me. My brother and sister-in-law were, of course, in attendance. I can only imagine what they have said to my cousins and their spouses for them to behave like this.

What they don’t know is that had they invited me, I would have appreciated it, but would have declined, because my presence triggers my brother. I want my brother to experience joys in life, such as getting out of the house and socialising. I step away from all social engagements that he is going to attend so that he can enjoy them.

I’ve been doing this for a couple of years anyway. For example, when a cousin came from Rwanda to see my father, and a meal out was planned, I went home so that my brother could join them. When it was my father’s last birthday at the care home, I sat in another room for a couple of hours so that my brother and sister-in-law could celebrate with my father and enjoy the cake cutting. My brother didn’t know I was there. He never knew when I stepped back so that he could enjoy something.

 

 

………..

 

 

My mother and brother kept in touch by text and sometimes a phone call here and there, but sadly, he doesn’t see her often. Gifts of food, for example, that my mother or I had cooked for them were not welcomed. On the rare occasion my mother and brother did meet, he tried to initiate a conversation about money. He tried to tell her she is being unfair and that he deserves more. Even though they lived together for fourteen years without conflict, for more than a year, my sister-in-law refused all contact with my mother.

Swami ji once said something in a discourse not too long ago that eased my heart. What I understood from what He said was: if it is in a person’s interest, especially in their financial interest, to stay in conflict with you, then they will remain in conflict. It made me feel light because it reinforced the message that it’s not about you, but about what they can get from you.

 

 

 

Part 7

Every little girl has a dream that her daddy is a kind of Superman who will love and protect her. The realisation that my father didn’t care about me was soul-shattering. Although I’d felt it ever since I was a little girl, I never wanted to believe it. I suppose that’s why I always came back to him when he needed me – I was eternally holding out for him to acknowledge me and show me a semblance of love. But he never did. He never showed me love or gratitude; he never apologised.

Call me insane, but no matter what anyone has done, I can never hold a grudge, including against my dad. I could have told everyone that I forgave him in theory and then cut him out of my life forever without even trying to reconcile. That would have been so much easier, but it’s just not who I am. Forgiveness gushes forth from my heart every time to the point where I am always ready to make peace again with anyone willing to keep the door even slightly ajar. I won’t allow myself to hold onto the negativity. And if they ever ask me for help, I will put my heart and soul into it. Service is my life, after all.

And that’s exactly what I did.

I served my parents with every ounce of sincerity and love I had in me. After my mother and I moved in together, I could support her day and night. I made it my mission to make her as stress-free and as comfortable as possible. I took over the cooking, and we shared the housework so she was free to spend as much quality time with her husband at the care home as she wanted. I helped us care for our bodies by cooking healthy meals, and we both enrolled in the local exercise centre. Our mornings started gently with silence, meditation and sadhana, and then some exercise a few days a week to give us both mental and physical strength to get through the emotionally and physically draining days ahead. Logistically, I did whatever I could to ease her burden.

My brother and sister-in-law came by around twice a week to see my father at the care home and chose not to be involved in his medical care at all. They also continued to go away on some holidays, knowing he was dying. After much deliberation with the doctors, I left my parents once to go to South India for the wedding of my dearest soul sister and soul brother from the ashram, but I was always on standby to come back at any moment if they needed me.

Other than those few days away, I was with my father almost every day. I liaised with the doctors and nurses. I took him to every appointment except for two that I couldn’t attend, and even then, I was on the phone so I could hear the doctors speak and I could reassure him. Among other appointments with various doctors and professionals to help keep him as comfortable as possible on the road to the end of his life, he also had regular visits to the hospice, sometimes overnight to have fluid drained from his body.

Although he was living at the care home, Mum and I continued to take care of him out of love, and to allow the staff to give more attention to those who didn’t have loved ones around much. I helped to dress my dad, put him in his wheelchair and wheel him everywhere he needed to go when he couldn’t walk; even to the smoking area where I stood nearby and kept an eye on him to ensure he didn’t burn himself.

I helped to feed and clean up after him. I knew exactly how he liked his pillows stacked, and I bought him a soft fleece blanket so his bed felt more homely. I massaged his legs and feet when he was in pain. I gave him my only tablet so that he could lie in bed and stream the programmes he loved.

I brought him his favourite treats, even hunting them down online when I couldn’t find them in the shops. I served him endless cups of coffee. We carefully brought him home sometimes and pampered him, cooking his favourite foods. I pampered him on his two last birthdays and bought him the outfits he’d worn at both his final parties.

I gave him sincere blessings and positive energy whenever he asked me to put my hands on his head or when he was experiencing fear or pain.

 

…………….

 

I didn’t know when I left home that morning to be with my mother and father at the care home that for the next three days, I’d be wearing clothes other than my monks’ robes and that I’d have no vermillion and sandalwood markings (tilaka) adorning my forehead. For those three days, I was not a monk or anything ‘ji’. I very naturally became someone else. Someone who, for decades, I thought I never wanted to be again.

For the last few weeks of his life, the manager of the care home very kindly offered my mother a bedroom so that she could be close to my father. They knew how much he feared the end.

Because my father took a turn that Friday and needed us, I chose to stay with him. I slept in a chair next to him on the first night, then the care home provided an extra bed in the room, so my dad didn’t have to be alone. I didn’t have any fresh robes with me, and although home was only a 15-minute drive away, I felt that every second with my parents was precious, and my heart wouldn’t let me go home, even just to pack a bag. My mother had plenty of fresh clothes as she’d been staying there for a few weeks and I’d been doing her laundry from home. And so, with nothing else to worry about, for three days, Mum and I barely left my father’s side. We barely slept. My only concern was my parents’ peace and comfort.

On the second night, my mother was beyond exhausted. Many people, including my brother’s in-laws, had come to say goodbye that day, and it was an incredibly overwhelming day for her, far from peaceful and comfortable. At around 1 a.m., the nurse urged my mother to go to another room and get some proper rest, and we let her know that we’d wake her up if he needed her.

That night, the Universe gave me the greatest gift ever. A night alone in the sentiment of divine love and in service of my father. He couldn’t move or speak much, so it was the perfect time to just be with him without him being able to say anything hurtful to me, and I could just love him. I pushed the two beds together so I could be close to him.

I stayed up all night with him, sometimes in silence, sometimes gently talking or singing to him. I checked if he was feeling hot or cold and added or removed blankets as necessary. I kept an eye on his breathing patterns.

When he seemed uncomfortable, I called the nurse, and she administered medication. We repositioned him when needed to help him feel more comfortable.

Over the year and a half that my father was at the care home, I’d had experience of supporting a number of dear people there who needed help; the elderly, the dying and their loved ones. Many of us had become like family, and I felt honoured that they invited me to be present through such intimate moments of their lives and deaths. I wondered, when the time came for my father, would I show him the same love? In the end, it was not even a question. And with this insightful experience, I knew what to expect when my father’s time came and how, in my capacity, to best help him.

When my father was fearful, I talked to him calmly and told him to think of his mother and father, whom I know he loved and missed dearly on the other side. However my father was with me, he loved Swami ji and always kept a photo of Him close by. I kept reassuring him that there was nothing to fear, that Swami ji was with us too.

Sometimes I lay next to my father with one of his hands in mine and one over his heart. Sometimes I lay with my head at his feet and gently hugged his legs.

 

That night, without my robes and tilak, I was nobody but my father’s daughter again. I was a little girl just loving her Daddy.

I found myself flowing with such love and a desire for my father to have the most loving and peaceful transition to the other side that I could give him.

 

Before that night, many times, I asked my father why he used to beat my mum and me up and why he took everything from me and gave it all to my brother. He never had an answer for me. He would remain quiet and look away. When I pressed him about the violence, his final answer was that it was his right. He also claimed he didn’t remember much of it.

It was evident that right to the end, he didn’t believe he was wrong in the way he treated us. During his last birthday speech that I attended, he thanked everyone there and all the staff at the care home, but completely forgot to mention my mother or me. We were used to it and didn’t even notice, but everyone else did.

When one of them suggested writing a thank-you card for my mother and me, he wasn’t happy. He realised his forgetful blunder caused his new friends at the care home to see him in a different light, and he took it out on my mother. Somehow, all of that was her fault, and why should he thank those who were ‘born to serve him’?

About the money, a cousin told me that my father had once told him that the reason he took it all from me was that he believed I was too naïve and generous and would have given it all away to charity. It seems that kindness equalled weakness in his world. I believe these were just one of the justifications he gave himself and others to feel better about what he had done.

About a week before his passing, when I pressed him over and over: “Why? Why? Why?!”, he finally cried out, “Because he’s my son!”

In that moment, I understood everything. I had lost even before I was born.

And, it seems, my mother had too.

The only son she had, whom she waited on hand and foot for 46 years, showed the extent of his conditioning, in full view of everyone, the day before my father died.

One of my uncles, who is an accountant and understands our situation, had a conversation with my brother at the care home, after which they both entered the room to see my father. My uncle gently placed my brother’s hand in my father’s and said, “Tell him, tell him, what you said.”

My brother leaned into my father and said, “I love you, Dad.”

“And that you’ll take care of your mother,” my uncle reminded my brother of what he had just promised him.”

“I love you, Dad. My brother repeated.

“And tell him what you said, that you’ll look after your mother.”

My brother looked at our father for a few more seconds, his thoughts visibly in conflict. Maybe he wanted to say it. Maybe he just couldn’t get the words out, or maybe he knew deep down that he had given our uncle a false promise, telling him what he thought he wanted to hear to end the conversation quickly. But my brother could not lie to his dying father, knowing he had no intention of looking after his mother, financially or otherwise.

And yet, nothing I could have done would have been good enough for my father or made him love me as much as he loved my brother. Simply because I was born a girl. The more I witnessed it, the more my resentment dissipated.

How can I fight his age-old belief that sons and daughters are not equal? The centuries-old story that impacts the lives of millions of us daily. Mine is only one such story.

Upon later reflection, this realisation and that night serving my father healed a chasm of pain in me I didn’t know was still there. I’d spent a lifetime believing my father to be a massive cause of my suffering with the abuse I suffered at his hands. But at the same time, I was desperate for his love and approval. It was a confusing state to live in.

In the end, all I needed to do was to love him. And I mean, really love him, as a daughter cares for the father who really is her Superman and first love. That night, I saw past his conditioning. There were no politics, no outside influence, no ‘He said, she said’ … just Love in its purest form.

Had I refused to serve him, or worse, sent hate his way, even just in my thoughts, I believe I never would have healed. I am so grateful for the opportunity to be with him and serve him for those two years. Many children sadly miss out on such a blessing.

I now live in the remembrance that my father gave me this life. He gave me all the experiences I needed to grow and be where I am today. And I wouldn’t change my life for all the riches in the world.

 

 

 

 

Part 8

Just after sunrise, at 7 a.m., my mother returned to the room. Gently covering my father with another blanket, I let him know that I was going to rest and that his beautiful wife was with him and I’d be back soon. He opened his eyes and acknowledged us both. I rested for an hour, took a shower and was back by 9 a.m.

Shortly before midday that day, as my father was peacefully taking his last breath, I performed the mudras (handlocks) to call upon the divine, just as Swami ji has taught His disciples, and placed a hand on my father’s head. He left his body surrounded by his loved ones; two of my cousins were there, and my brother and sister-in-law made it just in time.

The whole day, anyone who wanted could come and pay their respects to his body. Mum and I then spent one more night at the care home with him. My father’s wish was to have his eyes donated, just as the eyes of his brother, to whom I had donated a kidney, were donated and transplanted to two children. My uncle gave them the gift of sight after his death, which was so beautiful, and inspired my father, too. The team were due to collect my father’s corneas the following day, so everyone, including my brother, had plenty of time alone with his body to say a final farewell before he was transferred to a place of rest.

The next day, as his body was prepared and carried out of the care home, an impromptu procession line of friends, relatives, caregigers, staff and management lined the hallways and followed him out singing a devotional prayer of peace. It was very touching. My brother and sister-in-law were not present, though, I’m not sure why. Perhaps they had said their final goodbyes, and my brother needed to grieve privately.

This is the other reason why we opted not to have a traditional funeral. It might have been too much for my brother. My sister-in-law agreed with my mother when they discussed the possibility of a non-traditional direct cremation with her long before my father’s death. Both agreed that the stress of a public funeral could trigger an episode in my brother, and it might be better to break from convention.

My father had had a two-year-long sendoff with many prayers and well wishes from everyone, and so, in place of a traditional funeral, we had a direct cremation and held an evening of prayer and music broadcast on Zoom from the temple of the care home. My brother and sister-in-law were, of course, invited, but they understandably chose to join in from the privacy of their home. My brother read a touching eulogy he had written for our dad.

During the cremation, my mother and I performed a yagna (ritual fire ceremony) together with a priest. My brother and sister-in-law were given details of the cremation; they could go there and sit in the garden of remembrance at the crematorium and watch the smoke for finality, or they were welcome to attend the fire ceremony that we were doing. They chose not to attend either.

While alive, we had asked my father about his funeral wishes. He said he had no preference about it as he’d be dead. He’d had a massive 70^th birthday party and said that was enough. His only final wish was to have his ashes scattered in the river by the ashram where I lived in India. Three months after his passing, my mother and I travelled to the Himalayas, and we did just that. We honoured everything he asked for.

I feel we did everything to the best of our ability and beyond, remaining especially sensitive to my brother’s needs, but the way we handled the post-death rites was met with heavy criticism.

You’d think somebody would give us a break after all we’d just gone through, but we were told it wasn’t fair that we didn’t do a traditional funeral. We were told people needed closure. It was fed to my brother that he needed closure, too. Although up until he was told this, he was okay grieving in his own way, supported by his wife and her family.

It’s a funny old world we live in, isn’t it? You can bend over backwards, killing yourself to do the best you can with the purest intentions, and you will never please everybody. Or you can be one of a number of the worst human beings in history and yet be the leader of a country and be adored by millions.

When you speak the truth, you will lose friends, and people will reject you and attack you. It’s so easy to charm everyone with sweet words. But truth is raw and real. It doesn’t have to be brutal, but there is a line between being compassionate and being a doormat. I am no angel, I’ve never claimed to be, but I am no fascist dictator either. I’m no longer available for anyone to wipe their shoes on, thank you very much.

Those who have some strong opinions about my mother and me, please take it easy. You’re allowed to have your opinions, but mudslinging is quite an unnecessary sport. I have seen some of the WhatsApp and Instagram messages sent to people who know me. In surprise and out of kindness, they shared these messages with me in which I am being called all sorts of names. My mother and I have heard everything you have to say about us. If, after reading this, you still think we deserve the treatment we have received, then please aim it all at me, not at my mother. I am travelling a lot for my spiritual practices, charitable work and service, while she is in England dealing with this alone at times. My mother is the kindest, most gentle woman I know. She has been through enough and deserves to be surrounded by love and support and nothing less.

It takes immense strength to do what she did her whole life, and right to the end of my father’s life. To those who are still praising my father and judging my mother and me: I ask you, if he had taken away your freedom, or finances, or slapped you even just once across the face, let alone beat you up over and over again, as he did to us, would you have done what we did for my father?

The strongest not only forgive, they love. They live free of emotional burden. And with this freedom, they serve. They have the capacity to serve the world selflessly; to genuinely make a difference. I pray more women can be set free from the fear my mother lived in and can discover the truth of their souls and live to the fullest potential before it is too late. Every soul deserves to discover its own Truth.

 

 

 

 

Part 9

There are many ifs and buts in this story. If my sister-in-law had been honest about my brother’s mental health before marrying him, perhaps none of this would have happened, or perhaps it would have anyway, or something else just as big with the same life lessons for all of us.

I do not blame anyone. Just like I wrote in this post Who’s to Blame? about sexual abuse, I understand behaviour stems from our life experiences and conditioning. It doesn’t make it right. It doesn’t mean I agree. But I don’t hold grudges, because I understand.

I understand the fear householders live in. Once things have been accumulated – houses, cars, a lifestyle – a householder’s greatest fear is losing it all.

I also understand that my sister-in-law felt like she was doing the right thing at the start by protecting her family from the truth about my brother. As years pass and little daily untruths become a part of the fabric of life, I understand the immense mental burden and the justifications the mind coughs up to stay sane and sleep at night.

I’m sure we’ve all been there. Everyone has had a fear of losing something, whether they have acquired it honestly or dishonestly. Everyone has told a porkie here and there. Some people let go and come clean before it has a lasting negative effect on themselves. Others might take a little longer, or even take it, and the mental torment that comes with it, to the grave with them.

Even then, we are not free of it.

You see, when we leave this body, absolutely nothing is hidden. All lies and deceit are laid bare. You may not believe this, but I have had contact with my father more than once from the afterlife.

When he passed over, he was shown his life, how he lived, and how his actions made others feel. He sees the bigger picture now and is working through an awful amount of shame and guilt for what he did and for not living with the clearest intentions. And through him, I have learned the true thoughts and intentions of those who are still alive and benefitting from my investment. He said they are not ready right now, but one day they will have to look in the mirror and face the truth.

He said, those who act deceptively or with impure intention, who don’t own up and don’t put it right in this life, will have to face the consequences of it in the afterlife and in rebirth.

My father’s spirit told me that I chose him as a father, and he didn’t realise the importance of that until it was too late. He told me the lesson I was born to learn was forgiveness in this life,  and he says he is very proud of me as I have passed with flying colours. He is disappointed in himself that he didn’t take the growth that was offered to him by me.

When we are here in the body on Earth, the potential for spiritual growth is exponential. Once we leave the body, however, we lose that opportunity. It takes far longer to work on ourselves in the spirit world to reach the Divine.

His message from the afterlife is clear. Be humble and truthful. Work hard now. Rise above false-entitlement, deceit, guilt and shame. Come clean so you don’t have to wallow in it in the afterlife and be reborn to work through the same life lesson again.

(Maybe I will write more about my spirit world experiences one day, if I feel it’s necessary and helpful).

 

 

 

 

PART 10

After all this, here is how I’m doing today.

I trust in the higher Divine Play that knows the bigger picture, far beyond my limited capacity.

Because I am on the path of complete renunciation, it does me no good to say, ” This is MINE, that MINE.” Because nothing is MINE.

I see more than ever that I had to be completely emptied, because I want only to be filled with the Divine. Even if my family continue to alienate me, it makes no difference to me anymore. It only makes me value my relationship with the Divine above all. Every worldly relationship is transactional, temporary and full of expectation. Now I am free of all this.

Mother Divine is my Everything. I see I had to be physically, mentally, emotionally, and financially wiped out and reborn with fresh perspectives before I could even dream of a place at Her feet and revel in this state of bliss that stays with me. I could not be here without walking through massive life lessons of desire, attachment and expectation.

I bow my head in complete reverence and surrender to the ONE who is guiding my path and bringing me closer to HOME with each breath.

I pray, with the Grace I speak of above, that my sharing helps to break the taboos around mental health and family dynamics. I pray for a world where no one is ashamed of mental health. Where there is just as much awareness about it as heart disease. I pray for a world where we talk about it freely, and we help each other without stigma or fear shackling us to hide the truth.

Perhaps I can’t change the world, but I can write my experiences in the hope of planting seeds of change. Maybe no one will ever read this long and probably boring post, or maybe one day a seed will sprout somewhere. There are millions around the world, patients and their loved ones who could live freely and peacefully if there were more acceptance and understanding about mental health.

To my sister-in-law’s family, if you ever read this:

It doesn’t matter to me if you hate me. It makes no difference to my life. But, God forbid, if the time ever comes that my brother needs emergency help or specialised care later in life, I implore you to be there for him and make sure he gets the right help. That’s all I’ve wanted.

Although we have bank statements and emails to prove the injustice, my mother and I are not fighting against my brother and sister-in-law’s financial demands. This means there is hope for my mother to have a relationship with her son, whom she, of course, misses dearly, and there is enough money for my brother’s professional care if it is ever needed.

A few days after my mother told them they don’t have to pay her back what she is actually owed, just a portion of it, my sister-in-law, 16 months after my father died, finally talked to my mother and apologised to her. There has been no contact with me yet.

Hate me, fine, but please, please see that my brother always gets what he needs for his well-being.

And please know, it is heartbreaking for me to write difficult things about the people I was closest to in my life, who I have a natural urge to protect. I can only imagine how Swami ji must have felt when writing about His Guru in His memoir.

I mentioned this in an earlier blog post, and I reiterate it here.

When my guru, Om Swami ji wrote His memoir, If Truth Be Told, He had to write about some difficult interactions with His guru and how He was treated while serving at His guru’s ashram. Swami ji was completely objective in the way He wrote those chapters. He simply stated the facts and never spoke, or has ever spoken, disrespectfully of his guru. In fact, Swami ji regularly expresses His gratitude for His guru’s role in helping Him to achieve what He wanted, to discover His own truth. Swami ji told us that at times He still visualises His guru’s feet and kisses them with reverence. This is how much love He has in His heart, no matter what his guru said or did in the past.

Swami ji sets the highest ideal for us, and it is my duty as His disciple to follow suit as best I can. Those of you who know me and have heard me speak about my family know that I harbour no ill will at all in my heart for them. I am simply sharing my experiences. I send my family only love and gratitude for the opportunities for further spiritual growth.

Thank you for reading this oh so very long post. I hope it was worth your time. Remember: all families, all communities, face conflict at some point in time. It doesn’t always have to be that way. I pray that you and your loved ones find divine love and freedom within each other and yourselves.

Choose peace, peeps!

Love, Sushree Diya Om 🧡