THE PRESTIGE OF PAIN
- Madhukar Dama
- Apr 19
- 8 min read
When Suffering Becomes the National Family Heirloom
— A Satirical Autopsy of the Indian Joint Family
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INTRODUCTION: PAIN IS GOD, AND YOUR GRANDMOTHER IS ITS PRIEST
In a typical Indian household, especially the old-school joint family structure, there is one unspoken truth:
Pain is prestige.
Pain gives power.
Pain is proof.
The one who has suffered the most has the right to speak the loudest.
The one who bleeds in silence becomes the moral compass of the entire house.
This isn't empathy. It's a hierarchy of trauma.
Everyone is performing their pain — for sympathy, control, or just relevance.
Let us now walk barefoot through the ancestral garden of grievances, where Ajji's arthritis controls your bedtimes, and Tata's surgery earns him the final say in your marriage.
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PREGNANCY: WORSHIP THE WOMB, TORTURE THE WOMAN
1. Ajji to Deepa (Pregnant granddaughter): “You can’t even bend? I scrubbed the floor in my 9th month.”
2. Mother-in-law Anitha to Deepa: “Why do you need supplements? We ate dirt and jaggery. You’re over-medicalizing motherhood.”
3. Ajji to Deepa: “No soft pillows! Pain strengthens the baby’s bones.”
4. Ravi (Deepa’s brother) to Deepa: “Pregnancy is not a disease. Don’t act like a VIP.”
5. Ajji to Deepa: “Walk to the temple. I walked to the fields when I was nine months in.”
6. Tata to Deepa: “Back in my day, babies arrived without announcements. No scans, no panic.”
7. Anitha to Deepa: “You’re sleeping again? How will the baby learn to be active?”
8. Ajji to Deepa: “You’re already showing? I didn’t even look pregnant till the 8th month.”
9. Ravi to Deepa: “Crying? Really? Hormones are not an excuse for drama.”
10. Ajji to Deepa: “Hospital birth? Luxury! You’ll be weaker than your baby.”
> Satire: If grandmothers were OB-GYNs, childbirth would be a reality TV endurance contest.
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PARENTING: SUFFER FIRST, THEN EARN THE TITLE ‘MOTHER’
1. Ajji to Anitha: “I fed five babies with one breast. You can’t even manage one with all your gadgets?”
2. Anitha’s mother-in-law to her: “Why stroller? You’ve got arms, haven’t you?”
3. Ajji to Anitha: “Don’t nap when the baby naps. Clean the house. That's love.”
4. Anitha’s mother to her: “You’re wasting money on diapers. Cloth and cow dung worked fine for us.”
5. Tata to Anitha: “Pediatrician? Arey, cumin water cured everything in our time.”
6. Ajji to Anitha: “Carrying the baby too much? Spoiling already. No spine, this generation.”
7. Ravi to Anitha: “TV for kids? We stared at cracked walls and did algebra in our heads.”
8. Ajji to Anitha: “Don’t praise the baby. Evil eye will make it dumb.”
9. Tata to Anitha: “Why toys? Play with the utensils. Builds resilience.”
10. Ajji to Anitha: “Complaining about tiredness? I cooked, breastfed, cleaned, prayed and still had time to look graceful.”
> Satire: In our culture, love has to hurt. Otherwise, it doesn't count.
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CAREER: LABOUR WITHOUT LOVE
1. Tata to Ravi: “I walked barefoot to college. You need a car for a desk job?”
2. Ajji to Ravi: “You want to quit because your boss yells? Weak!”
3. Ravi’s uncle to Ravi: “You’re not earning enough to have mental health issues.”
4. Tata to Ravi: “Changing careers? Loyalty matters. Even to pain.”
5. Ajji to Ravi: “Freelancers are just jobless people with a Canva account.”
6. Ravi to Arjun (his son): “Stress is natural. So is losing your hair by 25.”
7. Tata to Ravi: “Work overtime. That’s how we earned our ceiling fan.”
8. Ajji to Ravi: “You think you’re the first to feel burnout? I never even had the word!”
9. Ravi to his wife Anitha: “Don’t take sick leave. We’re not rich enough to rest.”
10. Ajji to Ravi: “Chase pension. Not passion. Passion doesn't pay electricity bills.”
> Satire: If career advice came from Indian elders, burnout would be a promotion.
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AGING: THE MORE YOU HURT, THE MORE YOU RULE
1. Ajji to everyone: “Don’t move my chair. My joint pain aligns with the sun.”
2. Tata to Arjun: “You think your cold is bad? I had typhoid without a fan.”
3. Ajji to Tanu: “You forgot to touch my feet. Now I’ll get a fever.”
4. Tata to everyone: “Don’t take me to hospital. Then blame me for dying.”
5. Ajji to Deepa: “No birthday cakes. Death is nearer than candles.”
6. Ajji to the maid: “Don’t clean my room. I like the dust. It smells like my youth.”
7. Tata to Ravi: “Curd at night ruined my knees. Don’t question me. Just suffer.”
8. Ajji to Anitha: “Pain brings spirituality. You’re too happy to be wise.”
9. Tata to Arjun: “No therapy. I had mango pickle and boredom. That cured me.”
10. Ajji to Deepa: “God bless you. But I’ve suffered more. Remember that.”
> Satire: In India, growing old is less about aging — more about out-suffering everyone else.
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RELATIONSHIPS: LOVE IS A BONUS. PAIN IS THE PRICE.
1. Ajji to Deepa: “We never said ‘I love you’. And look, we’re still married. And silent.”
2. Anitha to Deepa: “He slapped me only once. At least he doesn’t drink. Much.”
3. Tata to Deepa: “Space? What space? This isn’t an airport lounge.”
4. Ajji to Deepa: “You married into the family. The boy is just a bonus.”
5. Ajji to Deepa: “Divorce is western poison. Adjustment is Indian tradition.”
6. Anitha to Deepa: “Men are like that only. Don’t expect empathy.”
7. Ajji to Deepa: “Don’t speak up. Be the bigger woman — or at least the quieter one.”
8. Tata to Deepa: “Have a baby. That’ll solve your fights. And create new ones.”
9. Ajji to Deepa: “Don’t complain to your parents. They paid the dowry. Now suffer.”
10. Anitha to Deepa: “Even I adjusted. You think I married for romance?”
> Satire: Marriage is not about happiness. It's about who can suppress themselves longer.
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CONCLUSION: SUFFERING AS LEGACY
When a family worships pain, they forget how to love.
When pain becomes wisdom, healing becomes betrayal.
When pain is inherited like land, the house turns into a museum of martyrdom.
And everyone lives not to be happy —
But to be remembered as the one who suffered more than anyone else.
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PART 2: THE HEALING DIALOGUE
“Drop Your Pain. You’re Not a God.”
A long healing dialogue between Madhukar the Hermit and the entire suffering-entitled Indian family
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Setting:
A mud-floored courtyard under neem trees. The family has come reluctantly, dragged by the granddaughter Deepa. Madhukar sits barefoot, pouring water into clay cups. There are no garlands. No incense. Just silence — and the soft breath of truth ready to be released.
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CAST
Madhukar – the Hermit
Ajji – the grandmother
Tata – the grandfather
Ravi – the son
Anitha – the daughter-in-law
Deepa – the pregnant daughter
Manoj – the son-in-law
Tanu & Arjun – the grandchildren
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SCENE BEGINS
Madhukar:
Drink some water.
Let your pride rest for a while.
Pain doesn’t need to sit at the head of the table anymore.
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Ajji (suspiciously):
You don’t look like a doctor.
Madhukar:
That’s because I don’t treat diseases.
I invite people to stop manufacturing them.
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Tata (gruffly):
Manufacturing? You think this pain is fake?
Madhukar:
No.
I think it’s real.
But I also think you’ve been using it to feel powerful.
To avoid saying, “I feel forgotten.”
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Ravi (defensive):
We never stop working. We don’t complain.
Madhukar:
You don’t complain.
But you expect applause.
You mistake exhaustion for excellence.
You pass down burnout like family silver.
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Anitha (tight-lipped):
I never had a break. Never asked for help. I did my duty.
Madhukar:
No.
You did your suffering.
And you turned it into a measuring tape for your daughter’s womb, your husband’s work, and your children’s joy.
Duty without love is dictatorship.
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Deepa (whispering):
I just wanted rest. They made me feel like that’s betrayal.
Madhukar:
In houses where pain is holy, comfort becomes a sin.
You’re not lazy. You’re unchained.
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Ajji (shaking head):
We only taught what we knew.
Madhukar:
No.
You taught what was done to you.
You were denied comfort.
So you called it strength.
You didn’t heal. You inherited hurt — and wrapped it in pride.
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Manoj (half-laughing):
So what do we do now? Throw our stories away?
Madhukar:
No.
But stop using your scars as thrones.
Stop demanding obedience for your broken back.
The world owes you healing — not worship.
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Tanu (young, confused):
But if they don’t suffer… how do we know they love us?
Madhukar (softly):
When people heal…
They laugh more.
They ask real questions.
They listen.
They stop comparing their yesterdays to your today.
That is love. Not guilt.
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Tata (quietly):
But what do we become… if not respected for our pain?
Madhukar:
You become what you were before the world crushed you:
Curious.
Tender.
Human.
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Ajji (almost whispering):
If I stop complaining… who will hear me?
Madhukar:
Start telling the truth, Ajji.
Tell them you were lonely.
Tell them no one hugged you after childbirth.
Tell them you never cried in front of your husband.
Tell them the pain wasn’t sacred — it was ignored.
Then your voice will finally be heard.
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Anitha (tearing up):
What if I don't know how to live without this suffering?
Madhukar:
That’s because your pain became your personality.
But you’re not your migraines.
You’re not your missed vacations.
You’re a woman who forgot that joy is allowed.
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Ravi:
But if I rest, who will respect me?
Madhukar:
If respect requires sacrifice… it is slavery.
Earn it with presence, not pressure.
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Deepa:
Can I be the one who breaks the chain?
Madhukar (smiling):
Yes.
But they’ll call you selfish.
Ungrateful.
Spoiled.
Smile anyway.
That’s just their pain — begging not to be buried.
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Ajji (suddenly calm):
And if I let go…
What will I leave behind?
Madhukar:
You’ll leave behind something your children have never seen:
An elder who didn’t demand to be remembered for pain —
But for peace.
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FADE OUT
The neem leaves rustle.
Ajji lets her shawl slip off her shoulder.
For the first time, her sigh is not performative.
Deepa breathes.
Anitha blinks like someone waking up.
Tata looks at his palms — as if noticing them for the first time.
The family sits.
No tears.
Just silence.
Like a fever breaking.
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Pain Pays the Rent Here
— In the voice of every Indian family that calls suffering love
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they said
“adjust.”
so I folded my dreams
like torn sarees
and packed them
into my pelvic pain.
they said
“we never rested.”
so I sat through fevers
and called it strength
while my bones wrote
obituaries in secret.
they said
“we survived worse.”
so I shut up
when he raised his hand.
shut up
when my milk dried in grief.
shut up
when my joy begged for parole.
they said
“you owe us.”
so I paid
in silence, in stretch marks,
in the ache behind my eyes
every morning
that smelled like leftover duty.
they said
“pain is holy.”
and so I burned
my softness
on the altar of their approval.
and I —
I became
the next high priest of agony.
taught my daughter
to hide her hunger.
taught my son
to wear exhaustion like gold.
taught the house
to kneel
before the god of guilt.
we did not pass down wisdom.
we passed down
performance.
and no one ever learned
how to be free.
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