You Suffer Until You Realise That Suffering is Not Necessary

A slow, grounded examination of one of life’s hardest truths in the Indian context.

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1. INTRODUCTION: EVERYONE SUFFERS, BUT NOT EVERYONE QUESTIONS IT

In India, suffering is stitched into daily life. A bus conductor with knee pain keeps standing. A homemaker sacrifices her dreams to keep peace in the family. A college student drowns in coaching centre pressure.

Suffering is so common that we treat it like a duty. We think it proves our strength or character. For many years, it even feels necessary. But at some point, if we slow down and start observing, something shifts.

We realise:

> "Much of my suffering is coming from inside my mind. I keep repeating the pain, adding stories, expecting control."

That moment changes everything.

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2. THE EARLY YEARS: LEARNING TO SUFFER AS IF IT'S NORMAL

From childhood, Indian culture trains us to endure pain quietly.

"Good children study, even if they are tired."

"Real men don’t cry."

"Marriage means compromise."

A child’s joy is called disobedience. A teenager's wish is called immaturity. A woman's ambition is called selfishness.

We learn to feel shame for wanting ease. Suffering becomes our silent qualification for respect.

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3. ADULT LIFE: THE FACTORY OF SOCIAL SUFFERING

By 25, life becomes a chain of pressure points:

Forced career paths.

Loans in the name of progress.

Marriage for family satisfaction.

Children as societal checklists.

This is not life. This is survival with a smile. And behind that smile is:

Guilt.

Burnout.

Resentment.

Loneliness.

And what do we call it? "Responsibility."

We say: "At least we are not selfish." But inside, we are collapsing.

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4. THE TURNING POINT: WHEN SOMETHING BREAKS

One day, it’s too much. Maybe your body gives up. Maybe your mind says enough. Maybe someone you love dies. Or maybe you just sit alone and realise:

> "I have been living everyone else’s life. I’m carrying weight that isn’t mine."

This is not drama. This is truth. And it doesn't make you irresponsible. It makes you aware.

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5. PAIN VS SUFFERING: WHAT'S THE DIFFERENCE?

Pain is real: illness, loss, failure.

Suffering is added by your mind: overthinking, self-blame, looping thoughts.

You can’t always avoid pain. But most suffering is optional once you understand this difference.

> Pain is in the body. Suffering is in the narrative.

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6. 10 SIGNS YOU ARE CREATING UNNECESSARY SUFFERING (AND HOW TO STOP)

1. Repeating the Same Thought Like a Tape

"What if...? Why me? If only..."

Fix: Write it once. Then stop. Breathe. Come back to your senses.

2. Constant Blame — Of Others or Self

Blame keeps pain alive.

Fix: Ask, "What can I do next?" Move from blame to choice.

3. Always in a Hurry

Even brushing or eating feels like a race.

Fix: Slow down one daily task. Walk without phone. Chew slowly.

4. Needing Approval

Your peace depends on someone else's opinion.

Fix: Do something kind without telling anyone. Approve yourself.

5. "What Will People Say?" Controls You

This one thought ruins lives in India.

Fix: Ask instead: "What will happen if I live honestly?"

6. Fear of Silence

You avoid your own mind with noise and screens.

Fix: Try 5 minutes daily of doing nothing. Let thoughts come and go.

7. Obsessing Over Control

You try to control people, plans, future.

Fix: Say: "I'll do my best. The rest is not in my hands."

8. Treating Suffering as Your Fate

You wear pain like a badge of pride.

Fix: Ask: "Is this pain teaching me or just draining me?"

9. Resisting What Is Already True

You argue with reality.

Fix: Say: "This is what is. What now?"

10. Postponing Peace

You think peace comes after success or retirement.

Fix: Find one moment of peace today — in food, breath, or silence.

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7. REAL STORIES FROM INDIAN LIFE

Lalitha from Coimbatore: Stopped nagging her grown children. Started gardening. "My peace is mine."

Venkatesh from Hubballi: After his father died, he wrote daily in a diary. "Pain I accept. Drama I drop."

Meena from Hyderabad: Left a toxic office job. Now teaches tuition at home. "I earn less, but I smile more."

These are not saints. These are ordinary Indians who stopped creating unnecessary suffering.

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8. WHAT THE ESSAY HAS NOT IGNORED

This essay is not saying all suffering is mental. Some suffering is structural and injustice-based:

Caste violence.

Domestic abuse.

Medical corruption.

Gender discrimination.

Exploitative labour.

You cannot think or meditate your way out of these.

For such suffering, healing also includes:

Speaking out.

Seeking safe spaces.

Getting legal or community help.

Refusing to normalise abuse.

And sometimes:

Getting trauma therapy.

Using medicine.

Changing your environment.

The tools in this essay work alongside those responses — not instead of them.

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9. WE ALSO CLING TO SUFFERING

Even after we understand it’s unnecessary, we hold on. Why?

It gives us identity: "I am the victim, the struggler."

It earns sympathy: "Look what I’m going through."

It delays change: "Let me suffer a bit more, then I’ll act."

Letting go of suffering feels like giving up a part of ourselves. But it’s actually returning to who we were before the world taught us pain was noble.

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10. WHEN SUFFERING STOPS, WHAT REMAINS?

Stillness.

Energy.

Deep rest.

Fresh eyes.

Creative joy.

Space to help others.

You still face pain. You still lose things. But you stop adding fire to the wound. You stop pouring acid on your own heart.

And in that space, you become free. Not by escaping life, but by no longer wounding yourself with your own mind.

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FINAL WORDS

Suffering was necessary. It taught you what matters. It made you sensitive. It humbled you.

But now, it's time to walk forward without carrying that weight.

> You don't need to keep suffering to prove anything. You are allowed to be peaceful. You are allowed to stop.

That’s not selfish. That’s maturity. That’s healing.

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This essay is not a shortcut. It is not a miracle. It is a gentle mirror. Keep it near you. Read it slowly. Let its meaning grow inside you, one breath at a time.

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THE DIALOGUE BEGINS

Characters:

Madhukar – rural healer and quiet questioner

Rekha – teacher from Hubballi, emotionally burnt out

Sridhar – retired bank manager, chronic back pain

Praveen – software engineer from Bengaluru, battling anxiety

Aarti – young homemaker, recently lost her mother

Adhya – Madhukar’s daughter

Anju – Madhukar’s younger daughter

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🌿 Scene:

Mild breeze. Early sun. Cow chewing nearby. Mild scent of castor oil in the air.

A castor oil pack is already warming on the stove.

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1. Rekha (teacher):

I’ve read what you said, Madhukar. That we suffer only until we realise suffering is unnecessary.

It sounds too simple.

How can that be true? I’ve suffered for years. It wasn’t a choice.

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Madhukar (smiling):

What is the difference between pain and suffering, Rekha?

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Rekha (pausing):

Pain is what happens. Suffering is what... follows?

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Madhukar:

Do you remember the day your father died?

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Rekha (eyes moist):

Yes.

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Madhukar:

That’s pain.

Now... the hundred times you told yourself, “If I had called him earlier…” or “I failed him” — what is that?

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Rekha (quietly):

Suffering.

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Madhukar:

Did those thoughts reduce the pain — or increase it?

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Rekha:

They made it worse.

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Madhukar:

Then who added that suffering?

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(Silence.)

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Sridhar:

Are you saying it’s my fault I suffer?

I have back pain. I worked for 33 years. My son doesn’t call. That’s real.

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Madhukar:

Of course it’s real. I never said the pain is imaginary.

But let’s ask: Is your suffering coming from your back — or from the thought that your son should behave differently?

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Sridhar (murmurs):

Both.

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Madhukar:

Yes. But which one eats you more at night?

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Sridhar:

His silence.

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Madhukar:

Then — are you in pain, or are you in resistance?

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(Sridhar looks down.)

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Adhya (softly, from the side):

Appa says suffering is when you chew the same thought again and again — like a goat with no grass.

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Everyone chuckles.

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Praveen:

I still don’t get it. I have anxiety. I didn’t invite it. It just comes.

Even when I’m quiet, I’m worried. Is that suffering?

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Madhukar:

Anxiety is a wave.

Suffering is when you chase it, fight it, label it, fear it, and build a house around it.

What do you usually do when you feel anxious?

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Praveen:

Scroll phone. Watch something. Drink coffee. Panic quietly.

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Madhukar:

Try this next time:

Sit with it. Name it. Say: “Ah, this is anxiety. Let me breathe and observe.”

Don’t touch the phone.

Don’t fix it.

Just sit with it like an old, boring visitor.

You may find... it leaves faster.

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Aarti (young widow, hesitant):

Madhukar-ji… when my mother died last month, I didn’t even cry properly.

Everyone said, “Be strong.”

But I felt frozen. That pain — is that suffering?

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Madhukar:

That’s pain, dear. Let it flow.

Suffering comes when you block pain, postpone grief, or judge your own emotions.

Would you like to cry now?

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(Aarti nods. Anju quietly hands her a towel. The group is silent.)

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Madhukar (after a pause):

There is one more form of suffering — comparison.

You think:

“Others are happier.”

“They moved on.”

“I should be stronger.”

But who told you what the right way is?

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Sridhar:

Society.

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Madhukar:

And is society happy?

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Everyone chuckles again.

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Rekha:

So what do we do, Madhukar?

When the suffering comes? When the loop starts?

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Madhukar:

Notice it.

Name it.

Slow down.

Breathe.

Don’t feed it.

Let it be.

Do something small — like wiping a plate, lighting a lamp, or walking slowly.

And ask yourself:

> “Is this thought helping me — or hurting me?”

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Adhya:

Appa also says: Suffering is sticky. It sticks if you fight it.

But if you become still… it slides off.

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Anju (adds playfully):

Like how oil doesn’t stick to grandma’s iron kadai when it’s hot!

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Madhukar (smiling):

Exactly.

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Aarti:

Will it ever fully stop? Or do we always suffer a little?

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Madhukar:

The waves don’t stop. But you stop drowning in them.

You learn to float.

You learn to swim.

And sometimes, you just sit by the shore and smile.

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Praveen:

That sounds… peaceful.

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Sridhar:

And possible.

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Madhukar (offering each a castor oil pack):

Let’s start with the belly pack. 20 ml. Warm cloth.

You’ll notice something strange: when your body softens, your thoughts also slow down.

Apply it every day. And whenever the old suffering starts to rise — just ask:

> “Am I adding this — or is it already gone?”

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🌿 Closing Scene:

Aarti gently presses the oil cloth to her belly. Sridhar adjusts his sitting posture. Rekha writes something in a little notebook. Praveen leans back against the neem tree. No one speaks. No one needs to.

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PART 2: WHAT HAPPENED AFTER THEY LET GO A LITTLE

Characters Return:

Madhukar – rural healer, calm listener

Rekha – teacher from Hubballi

Sridhar – retired bank manager

Praveen – anxious software engineer

Aarti – young widow and homemaker

Adhya & Anju – Madhukar’s daughters, playful and alert

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🌿 Scene:

Another soft morning. The ground is slightly wet from last night’s drizzle. Birds are louder today. A mild turmeric smell wafts from Madhukar’s kitchen.

The group gathers again — on their own, no invitations sent.

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Rekha (placing a bag of homemade bhakris):

Madhukar, I didn’t think I’d come back. But I did something last week I’ve never done.

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Madhukar (sipping ragi ambali):

Tell me.

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Rekha:

I took a day off from school. Just rested. No reason.

No excuse.

And — I didn’t feel guilty.

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Madhukar:

You gave your nervous system a holiday.

What changed after?

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Rekha:

The kids didn’t die. The world didn’t collapse.

I laughed — actually laughed — when one of them spilled paint.

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Madhukar:

What spilled inside you?

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Rekha (smiles):

The belief that if I’m not suffering, I’m being lazy.

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Sridhar:

Same here. I stopped checking if my son messaged me.

Stopped waiting.

And last Thursday — he called on his own. We spoke for 12 minutes.

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Madhukar:

What did you say?

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Sridhar:

Nothing big. He asked how my knees are. I said, “Better now that I stopped worrying about you.”

He laughed. I laughed.

I didn’t say it with sarcasm. Just… relief.

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Praveen:

I failed twice. And succeeded once.

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Madhukar:

That’s the rhythm of healing. What happened?

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Praveen:

I had three anxiety attacks. Two, I fought. They won.

Third one, I didn’t fight. I said aloud: “Come, anxiety. Sit here. Let’s breathe together.”

And for the first time, it passed without drama.

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Adhya:

Like a guest that leaves faster when you don’t give tea.

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Everyone laughs.

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Aarti:

I cried. Properly.

On my kitchen floor. I hugged my daughter and told her:

“I miss ajji, but I’m okay now.”

She nodded and said: “I also miss her, amma. But she’s with the flowers.”

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Anju (gently):

Maybe suffering goes when someone else can carry a little piece of it with you.

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(Madhukar nods.)

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Madhukar:

So… did you all stop suffering?

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(They look at each other.)

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Rekha:

Not fully. But I don’t feed it anymore.

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Sridhar:

I don’t justify it like before.

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Praveen:

I watch it like a weather report now.

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Aarti:

I allow peace without feeling disloyal to pain.

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Madhukar:

Then you are healing.

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(He pours a little castor oil into a fresh bowl.)

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Madhukar (gently):

Let me say this again:

You will face pain. That’s human.

But you don’t have to multiply it with thoughts, fear, guilt, comparison.

Every time you drop a layer of that — you return to something simple, soft, and alive.

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Adhya (reading from her school diary):

Ajja used to say this Kannada line:

“ಹದಿನಾಲ್ಕು ಹಾದಿ ತಾಳ್ಮೆ ಕಾದಿ”

(“There are fourteen roads — only patience waits at the right one.”)

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Madhukar:

Patience is not passive. It’s powerful.

You all came with the question:

“Is this suffering necessary?”

Now you’ve begun living the answer.

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Anju (smiling):

Appa, can I ask a question today?

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Madhukar:

Always.

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Anju:

If suffering is like a mosquito — do we need to kill it, or just stop scratching the bite?

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Madhukar (laughing):

Just stop scratching, kanna.

The itch will go.

And the next time, sleep under the net of awareness.

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🌿 Closing Scene:

They all sit silently. The oil pack warms again. Sridhar closes his eyes. Rekha massages her own hands gently. Praveen writes in a small pocket diary. Aarti peels a guava. No one rushes. Suffering still visits. But it’s no longer the king.

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YOU HELD ON TO THE PAIN LIKE IT WAS YOUR MOTHER’S HAND

you kept it.

like it was sacred.

like it had fed you.

like it had slept beside you through childhood.

you thought you were carrying duty.

you were just carrying debris.

the world never taught you the difference.

between pain and suffering.

between a cut and the scratching.

between what happens and what you replay at night.

between a broken cup and the drama you write about it for 6 years.

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I SAW YOU

dragging it.

your father's regret.

your failed exam.

your mother’s silence.

your son's indifference.

wrapped in respectable plastic:

“I’m just being responsible.”

“No pain, no gain.”

“This is life.”

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BULLSHIT.

this is conditioning,

not character.

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WHO SOLD YOU THIS SUFFERING AS GOLD?

the school.

the temple.

the marriage ad.

the man with the stick in your house who called himself your father.

the woman who said, “adjust, beta.”

they taught you how to

kneel

beg

sacrifice

wait

burn

and smile.

but never how to feel.

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YOU GAVE IT NAMES TO MAKE IT SOUND NOBLE

“she’s so sacrificing.”

“he’s such a silent warrior.”

“they suffered so much for us.”

you thought pain was the only real proof of love.

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YOU ATE YOUR TEARS BEFORE YOUR FIRST PERIOD

you swallowed your wants at 13.

you bit your tongue at 26.

you medicated your silence at 41.

you posted fake peace at 58.

and the world clapped.

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SUFFERING BECAME YOUR CURRENCY

your introduction.

your resume.

your badge of adulthood.

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YOU SAID, “AT LEAST I’M NOT SELFISH”

and then you stared at the ceiling

at 3:41 a.m.

wondering why your bones ache

and your child doesn’t look you in the eye.

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YOU CONFUSED FEELING NOTHING WITH BEING STRONG

strength is not silence.

strength is truth.

and your truth was buried

under 19 layers of adjustment.

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YOU TOLD EVERYONE YOU WERE FINE

but you kept losing hair

and your gut started speaking

in gas and ulcers and swollen joints

and your phone screen got more love than your own skin.

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PAIN IS REAL, YES

but you built a temple around it.

you lit candles for it.

you made it your religion.

and forgot how to sit

in peace

without panic.

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YOU THOUGHT SUFFERING MAKES YOU MORAL

it just makes you bitter.

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YOU SAID, “WHAT WILL PEOPLE SAY?”

the people are busy.

they forget your birthday.

they don’t pay your bills.

they won’t show up when you’re on oxygen.

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YOU FOUGHT YOURSELF FOR YEARS

and called it discipline.

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THEN ONE DAY, IT CRACKED

you dropped the pot.

you yelled.

you rested.

you stopped chasing approval.

you applied a warm castor oil cloth on your belly

and wept like a damn human.

and for the first time,

in years,

you didn’t feel like a prisoner.

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THE SUFFERING LOST ITS POWER

not because god rescued you

but because you looked at it

like a mosquito

and chose

not

to

scratch.

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EVERYONE’S STILL SCREAMING

in your lane.

in your WhatsApp group.

in your temple.

in your air-conditioned office.

you stopped replying.

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NOW YOU DRINK YOUR AMBALI SLOWLY

you take a dump without overthinking your future.

you tell people no

and they don’t die.

you sit with grief

and don’t add sugar or hashtags.

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YOU STILL BLEED.

you still lose money.

you still get ghosted.

you still hurt.

but you

don’t

multiply

it.

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YOU LEARNED THE HARD WAY:

the world sells suffering

but peace

has no advertisement.

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YOU SUFFERED BECAUSE YOU THOUGHT YOU HAD TO

now you don’t.

and no one taught you this.

you just slowed down enough

to finally

hear it.

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