Have You Killed Your Father?
- Madhukar Dama
- 2 hours ago
- 7 min read
A guide to true freedom
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PROLOGUE
Many people say they are spiritual.
They chant, they meditate, they read sacred books.
They avoid meat, they speak softly, they light incense.
They quote gurus and smile at pain.
They say they are “beyond the world.”
But very few have done the one thing that truly starts the spiritual path:
They have not killed their father.
And by “father,” we don’t just mean the man at home.
We mean the inner father—the voice in your head
that still tells you what is good, bad, right, wrong, proper, improper.
The voice that still wants to be approved,
that still fears punishment,
that still obeys, or rebels—but always remains tied.
This essay is not about hating your father.
It is about breaking the invisible chain.
It is about stopping the unconscious habit of shaping your entire life
just to match or avoid your father’s voice.
Let us go slow.
Let us look honestly.
Let us burn the layers.
---
PART 1: THE FATHER IS NOT JUST A PERSON
Your father may be alive or dead.
He may have loved you or hurt you.
He may have been present or missing.
But inside you—he lives.
As a rulebook.
As a voice.
As fear.
As shame.
As guilt.
As pride.
As the face you still try to please or prove wrong.
Every time you say:
“What will people say?”
“I should be responsible.”
“A man doesn’t cry.”
“I should not waste time on art.”
“My family would never accept this.”
—your father is speaking. Even if he never said those exact words.
This is the internal father.
The inherited idea of what life should be.
You picked it up long ago. Without your permission.
Now it sits quietly inside you, and guides your every step.
And you call that “spirituality”?
No. That is slavery in disguise.
---
PART 2: HOW THIS HAPPENS
When we are children, we are helpless.
We want love.
We want food.
We want safety.
We look up to those who gave us that—often, our father.
So we copied him.
We obeyed him.
We feared him.
We became what we thought would keep us safe and loved.
This becomes a pattern.
Even when we grow up.
We continue to check:
“Will this make father proud?”
“Will this make me look successful?”
“What if I disappoint them?”
Even if he never told us these things,
we absorbed it from his silences, his anger, his values,
his reactions, his life.
This is not your fault.
But now—it is your responsibility.
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PART 3: SIGNS YOU HAVEN’T KILLED YOUR FATHER
You hesitate to do something new just because your father wouldn’t have done it.
You still feel guilty for taking rest, saying no, or choosing your own way.
You avoid certain careers, relationships, clothing, or food because “he wouldn’t approve.”
You get triggered when someone questions your hard work, discipline, or authority.
You feel you must constantly explain your decisions to people—even strangers.
You still carry the weight of “being a good son” even if it crushes you.
None of this is about respect.
It is about being trapped.
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PART 4: WHAT “KILLING” MEANS
It does not mean hate.
It does not mean revenge.
It does not mean shouting or abandoning him.
It means this simple, deep truth:
> I no longer listen to the voice inside me that came from him.
I observe it.
I see it for what it is.
But I do not bow to it.
I do not build my life around it.
I live from my own inner truth—which I must discover, shape, and test, alone.
---
PART 5: THE COST OF NOT KILLING HIM
If you don’t do this—if you don’t kill the father within—you will:
Live someone else’s life.
Die with bitterness or regret.
Pass down the same chains to your children.
Speak like a grown man, but feel like a scared child.
Seek approval till your last breath.
Call it loyalty, but it is fear.
Many men die worshipping their father’s ghost.
Or fighting it.
Either way, the ghost wins.
---
PART 6: AFTER THE DEATH
When you kill the father inside, something terrifying happens:
You feel alone.
Utterly alone.
No guide. No safety net. No outer permission.
You have to decide for yourself.
Why wake up?
Why work?
Why marry or not marry?
Why speak the truth?
Why care?
You must start from scratch.
This is where real spirituality begins.
Not before.
From this empty space,
you slowly build a new inner life.
Not based on fear, shame, or pressure.
But on understanding.
On your own experience.
On silence.
On life itself.
You become your own father.
Or better—father dies,
and truth becomes your only parent.
---
PART 7: A WORD ON LOVE
You may still love your father.
You may even care for him in his old age.
You may sit and laugh with him.
But now, it is from clarity—not guilt.
It is from present love—not old duty.
You no longer need him to agree with your path.
You no longer seek his praise or fear his silence.
You are free.
And only from this freedom
can love be real.
---
EPILOGUE
When someone says, “I am spiritual,” ask them:
Have you killed your father?
Have you stopped living his story?
Have you stopped thinking his thoughts?
Have you said no—not just outside, but inside?
If not—
then it’s not spirituality.
It’s a performance.
It’s a scared boy in a grown man’s robe.
It’s a daughter who still wants a smile from the past.
Spirituality is not polite.
It is not pretty.
It begins in blood.
Not outer blood.
But the inner cutting of inherited chains.
So go on.
Stand in front of the mirror.
And ask:
> Is this man living his life?
Or is he still waiting for his father’s nod?
Until you face this—
you are not free.
You are just pretending with flowers and prayers.
HAVE YOU KILLED YOUR FATHER?
A Slow-Burn Poem in Blood and Dust
– barefoot, brown-skinned, and blistering in Indian sun
---
i once met a man
who called himself spiritual
he had a sandalwood bead mala
an organic smoothie in one hand
and shame
shame buried deep
like termite eggs in his ribcage
he smelled like incense and
obedience.
he said—
"my guru says..."
"my father always taught..."
"my family believes..."
i stopped him there
and asked:
have you killed your father?
not poisoned
not fought
not abandoned
but killed—
burnt that face carved in your spine
that made you hold your piss
speak softly
sit straight
earn big
and die slowly.
---
listen.
you came out of his seed
but that doesn’t mean
you owe him your soul.
he gave you a name,
but now it hangs
around your neck
like a factory tag.
he said things like:
“real men don’t cry.”
“don’t answer back.”
“study hard, be practical.”
“what will people say?”
and even when he didn’t say,
his silence whipped your back.
so now—
you’re 35
with thinning hair
and a mouth full of apologies
for sins you never committed.
---
your father is a smell
in your mattress
he’s the panic before you speak your mind
the invisible noose
you call “respect.”
you touch his feet on diwali
but inside,
you still crave his nod,
his yes,
his “good boy.”
you mistake this slavery
for love.
---
so you grew up
and joined the line
MBA
marriage
mortgage
mandatory sunday visits
two kids who also walk on eggshells
because daddy’s always “thinking.”
you call this discipline.
you call this dharma.
but i call it
ancestral constipation.
you haven’t taken a spiritual shit in years.
---
my friend,
you must go to the forest
not to find peace
but to burn the photograph.
the inner one.
the smiling one.
burn it.
again and again.
kill the part of you
that says:
“this is how i should live.”
“this is how i should die.”
“this is how i should be seen.”
fuck how you should be seen.
live in a way
your father would be afraid of.
live in a way
that doesn’t seek anyone’s damn blessing.
---
don’t become your father’s shadow
just because he’s dead
and you miss his hands.
don’t become his voice
just because your mother repeats it
like a bhajan
every sunday.
you are not here
to be a son.
you are here
to be a being.
you are not here
to obey a memory.
you are here
to spit blood into the dirt
and grow something truer.
---
this is not western rebellion
this is not Freud
or therapy babble.
this is Indian truth
ancient and dirty—
you must kill the father
like Krishna left Yashoda
like Buddha left his palace
like Nandanar walked into fire
like Kabir tossed both temples and mosques
like the farmer who finally stops
ploughing land that grows nothing.
---
once you kill him—
you’ll sit alone for weeks
maybe months
wondering who the fuck you are.
no applause.
no manual.
no plan.
you’ll shake.
you’ll ache.
you’ll want to run back
to the father’s rules
just for safety.
but stay.
stay in the fire.
don’t beg.
don’t build a new god.
don’t marry a guru.
don’t adopt a new father with a beard and an ashram.
just stay.
until the ashes are real.
until your voice returns
not from above
but from within.
---
and then
you’ll walk like you mean it.
eat what feels clean.
speak like thunder
without hurting a soul.
laugh without guilt.
cry without hiding.
build something you’ll burn tomorrow
without fear.
you’ll live
not like your father wanted
but like the wind does—
honest,
untied,
forever moving.
---
that’s when you’ll know:
he’s finally dead.
not in body.
not in anger.
but in control.
and you—
you are finally alive.
not a son.
not a disciple.
not a copy.
but a free, wild, whole damn self.
and that, my friend,
is the only kind of spiritual
worth being.
