YOU CAN NEITHER SATISFY YOUR PARENTS, NOR YOUR CHILDREN

𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐜𝐚𝐧 𝐧𝐞𝐢𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐬𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐬𝐟𝐲 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐬, 𝐧𝐨𝐫 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐜𝐡𝐢𝐥𝐝𝐫𝐞𝐧.

𝐇𝐞𝐫𝐞’𝐬 𝐰𝐡𝐲 —

Parents and children both live in different emotional time zones.

When you are young, your parents want you to become what they could not.

When you grow up, you want your children to become what you could not.

In both cases, love gets mixed with unfinished dreams.

𝐘𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐬 𝐬𝐚𝐰 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐚𝐬 𝐚 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐫𝐞𝐝𝐞𝐞𝐦 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐢𝐫 𝐨𝐰𝐧 𝐥𝐢𝐯𝐞𝐬.

They carried the burden of missed opportunities, limited choices, and untold sacrifices.

They wanted your success to prove that their suffering was worth it.

So even when you succeed, it never fills them — because what they wanted was not your life’s outcome, but a correction of their own.

𝐘𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐜𝐡𝐢𝐥𝐝𝐫𝐞𝐧 𝐬𝐞𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐚𝐬 𝐚 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐲 𝐦𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐛𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐤.

They are born into a different world — new language, new rhythm, new possibilities.

They do not want to live your lessons; they want to make their own mistakes.

When you guide them, they hear control.

When you protect them, they feel trapped.

When you give them comfort, they sense debt.

So you stand in the middle — misunderstood by both directions of time.

Your parents look at you and still see a child who could have done more.

Your children look at you and see an old rule they need to escape.

𝐓𝐡𝐚𝐭’𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐜𝐫𝐮𝐞𝐥 𝐣𝐨𝐤𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐥𝐢𝐟𝐞.

No one gets the satisfaction they seek from the generation above or below.

Because satisfaction doesn’t flow through bloodlines — it flows through acceptance.

You can’t satisfy your parents.

You can only understand their fears and let them go.

You can’t satisfy your children.

You can only give them space to become what they must.

The day you stop trying to please either — that’s when love becomes real.

Not borrowed. Not imposed. Just lived.

---

𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐂𝐀𝐍 𝐍𝐄𝐈𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐑 𝐒𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐒𝐅𝐘 𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐒, 𝐍𝐎𝐑 𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐂𝐇𝐈𝐋𝐃𝐑𝐄𝐍 — 𝐀 𝐃𝐈𝐀𝐋𝐎𝐆𝐔𝐄 𝐖𝐈𝐓𝐇 𝐃𝐑. 𝐌𝐀𝐃𝐇𝐔𝐊𝐀𝐑 𝐃𝐀𝐌𝐀

It was early morning near Yelmadagi.

Mist still clung to the tamarind trees, and the faint smell of smoke from last night’s fire lingered.

The visitor, a man in his mid-forties, arrived walking slowly from Chimmanchod. His eyes looked tired — not from lack of sleep, but from long years of trying to please everyone.

Adhya opened the bamboo gate and greeted him with a small nod.

“Sit under the neem tree,” she said softly, then went inside to tell her father.

After a while, Dr. Madhukar Dama came out carrying two small cups of steaming bitter Mother Simarouba Kashaya.

He placed one before the visitor, sat down on the earth cross-legged, and waited without saying a word.

The man sipped the Kashaya, winced, and finally spoke.

“Doctor… I’ve spent my whole life trying to make my parents proud. Now I’m doing the same with my children. But somehow, no one’s ever content. My father still says I could’ve done better, and my son says I don’t understand him. Why can’t I satisfy either of them?”

Dr. Dama looked at the horizon for a long time. The sun was just beginning to climb.

“𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐬𝐭𝐮𝐜𝐤 𝐛𝐞𝐭𝐰𝐞𝐞𝐧 𝐭𝐰𝐨 𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐞𝐬,” he said quietly.

“Your parents live inside a memory of scarcity.

Your children live inside a dream of abundance.

You are the bridge between those two illusions.”

The visitor frowned.

“I tried to give my parents everything I could. They still seem disappointed. My children get everything they want, but they still find me lacking.”

Dr. Dama smiled faintly.

“𝐘𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐬 𝐝𝐨 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐰𝐚𝐧𝐭 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐬𝐮𝐜𝐜𝐞𝐬𝐬; 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐲 𝐰𝐚𝐧𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐢𝐫 𝐨𝐰𝐧 𝐩𝐚𝐬𝐭 𝐭𝐨 𝐟𝐞𝐞𝐥 𝐣𝐮𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐟𝐢𝐞𝐝.

They want proof that their sacrifices meant something.

But even if you give them the world, it can’t erase the ache of what they lost long ago.

And your children?

They do not want your wisdom; they want their own scars.

They need space to make their own wrong choices, to live through their own pain.

To them, your help feels like interference.”

The man looked down at his cup. “Then what do I do? Just stop trying?”

“Not stop,” said Dr. Dama, “but 𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐩 𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐯𝐢𝐧𝐠.

Serve without expecting gratitude.

Love without seeking return.

Listen without explaining yourself.

Parents and children are not to be satisfied — they are to be understood.

When you understand your parents, you forgive their fears.

When you understand your children, you stop fearing their rebellion.”

The visitor sat silently. The morning breeze carried the sound of Adhya and Anju grinding Simarouba seeds in the shed.

After a pause, Dr. Dama continued:

“Life moves like a river. Each generation tries to dam the flow — to hold what it loves.

But love is not meant to be held; it is meant to move.

Let it pass through you.

Let your parents’ story end with you, and let your children’s story begin without your control.

𝐓𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐢𝐬 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐩𝐞𝐚𝐜𝐞 𝐛𝐞𝐠𝐢𝐧𝐬 — 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐛𝐞𝐜𝐚𝐮𝐬𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐫𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭, 𝐛𝐮𝐭 𝐛𝐞𝐜𝐚𝐮𝐬𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐟𝐢𝐧𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐲 𝐞𝐦𝐩𝐭𝐲 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐧𝐞𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐩𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐞.”

The man smiled faintly. Something inside him loosened.

He finished the Kashaya and stood up.

Savitri appeared from the kitchen, handing him a small packet of cold-pressed castor oil and a bottle of Mother Simarouba Kashaya.

Adhya gave him two guavas from their garden.

He looked at Dr. Dama one last time.

“Thank you,” he said. “Not just for the Kashaya.”

Dr. Dama nodded, eyes calm.

“Remember,” he said,

“𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐩 𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐦𝐢𝐥𝐤, 𝐦𝐚𝐢𝐝𝐚, 𝐬𝐮𝐠𝐚𝐫, 𝐫𝐞𝐟𝐢𝐧𝐞𝐝 𝐨𝐢𝐥𝐬.

𝐌𝐢𝐧𝐢𝐦𝐢𝐬𝐞 𝐰𝐡𝐢𝐭𝐞 𝐫𝐢𝐜𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐭.

𝐄𝐚𝐭 𝐣𝐨𝐰𝐚𝐫, 𝐫𝐚𝐠𝐢, 𝐦𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐭𝐬, 𝐥𝐨𝐜𝐚𝐥 𝐯𝐞𝐠𝐞𝐭𝐚𝐛𝐥𝐞𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐟𝐫𝐮𝐢𝐭𝐬.

𝐒𝐭𝐚𝐲 𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐯𝐞 𝐨𝐮𝐭𝐝𝐨𝐨𝐫𝐬, 𝐞𝐚𝐭 𝐨𝐧𝐥𝐲 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐡𝐮𝐧𝐠𝐫𝐲, 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐡𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐌𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐒𝐢𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐛𝐚 𝐛𝐞𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐞 𝐬𝐥𝐞𝐞𝐩.

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐛𝐨𝐝𝐲 𝐜𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐧𝐬, 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐝 𝐪𝐮𝐢𝐞𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐬, 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐭 𝐟𝐨𝐥𝐥𝐨𝐰𝐬.”

As the man walked back down the dirt path, the first sunlight fell through the neem branches — quiet, unhurried, forgiving.

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𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐂𝐀𝐍 𝐍𝐄𝐈𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐑 𝐒𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐒𝐅𝐘 𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐒, 𝐍𝐎𝐑 𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐂𝐇𝐈𝐋𝐃𝐑𝐄𝐍 — 𝐀 𝐏𝐎𝐄𝐌 𝐅𝐎𝐑 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐋𝐎𝐒𝐓 𝐆𝐄𝐍𝐄𝐑𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍𝐒

You can neither satisfy your parents,

nor your children.

The rope is too tight on both ends.

You hang somewhere in the middle,

calling it life.

Your parents still wait for the boy who once ran barefoot,

mud on his knees,

dreams in his mouth like sugarcane juice —

they still see him.

No promotion, no car,

no framed certificate

ever convinces them that the boy grew up.

They wanted someone else —

a version of you that lived only in their imagination.

And your children,

they don’t even see you.

You are background noise,

a reminder of how not to live.

You tell them something about patience —

they scroll past it.

You warn them about mistakes —

they say, that’s your story, not mine.

You stand between two generations

like a poorly built bridge

carrying weight from both sides,

cracking quietly at the center.

You bring gifts home,

your parents say, you shouldn’t have spent so much.

You bring the same gifts to your kids,

they say, is this all?

You work weekends

so they can live easy.

They call you absent.

You take a break

to be present.

They call you lazy.

There is no right size for your love.

Too small, it’s neglect.

Too big, it’s control.

---

Your mother’s eyes still hold that small-town hunger —

she wanted a son who made life glow,

not just work hard.

She wanted stories she could tell her sisters —

My son did this… my son did that.

Now she sits in a chair that smells of oil and old memories,

listening to television prayers,

wondering where she went wrong.

Your father still thinks silence is guidance.

He doesn’t ask, but his eyes accuse.

Every time you visit,

he talks about electricity bills and water pumps —

never about affection.

That’s his language of love.

You keep misunderstanding it.

And your children —

they will never understand how much you gave.

Because the world they live in

has no price tags for your kind of love.

They measure time, not tenderness.

They count achievements, not evenings you stayed awake.

You want to explain —

but there are no words that travel across generations intact.

Every sentence breaks on the border of years.

---

You call it duty.

They call it guilt.

You call it care.

They call it control.

You call it tradition.

They call it trauma.

And maybe everyone is right.

Because love,

when spoken in different centuries,

always sounds like noise.

You try to be gentle.

They call you weak.

You try to be firm.

They call you cruel.

You try to be silent.

They call you distant.

It’s a rigged game —

you entered it the day you were born,

and your children entered it the day they arrived.

Your parents wanted proof that their life was worth it.

Your children want freedom from the proof you became.

---

So you cook the same food your mother made,

but with less salt.

Your children push the plate away.

You play old songs from a radio.

They cover their ears with wireless buds.

You tell them what struggle feels like —

they show you what distraction feels like.

You wanted to live simply.

They call it boring.

You wanted peace.

They call it failure.

You still buy fruits for your parents on the way home,

out of habit,

out of hope.

They complain the mangoes are not sweet enough.

You smile.

That smile carries the entire human tragedy.

---

You can neither satisfy your parents, nor your children —

because satisfaction is not a family heirloom.

It’s not passed through blood.

Each generation must build its own peace

from its own wounds.

Your parents lived with fear.

You live with confusion.

Your children live with noise.

No one’s happy,

everyone’s busy trying to fix the ghost before them.

You want to rest your head

on your mother’s lap —

but she’s still holding a list

of things you didn’t become.

You want to hug your daughter —

but she’s already halfway out the door,

looking for herself in a glowing screen.

You stand alone in the corridor of time

with one hand reaching backward,

the other forward,

and both hands come back empty.

---

Sometimes, late at night,

you look at old photos —

your parents young, your children small.

You realize everyone was once tender.

No one meant harm.

Everyone just wanted to be seen.

Everyone wanted to matter.

But the world doesn’t allow that symmetry.

You can’t please those who raised you

and those you’re raising —

because both demand a version of you that can’t exist.

Maybe that’s the final lesson:

You are not a bridge.

You are the river.

Let them both stand on their banks and shout.

Let the current carry your silence.

---

Eat your food warm,

watch the sky change colors,

walk barefoot once a week.

Let the world call you selfish.

You’ve earned that peace.

Because one day,

your children will sit under a different sky

and whisper the same question —

Why could I not satisfy them?

And the wind will carry your answer —

soft, invisible,

complete:

“Because you were never meant to.”

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