A Room for the Ones Who Left

We have to suffer whatever we are meant to suffer. Call it karma, call it atonement. Whatever it is, life has to be lived till the last breath.

The only exception to this would be if our living were a cause of immense pain to our loved ones...

And I hope I can be true to what I believe.

This is what a reader wrote to me. A reader who read my note on suicide, on those left behind, on how I have stood at that precipice and chosen, over and over again, to live. And before I say anything else, let me say this: thank you.

To this reader, I see you. I hear you. I value you. Your note was not an argument, not a verdict, not a judgment--it was a hand reaching out. And that matters. That makes all the difference in the world. You took the time, you chose kindness, you shared what you believe, and in doing so, you did what many do not.

You did not call the one who leaves a coward. And that, in itself, shows that you have heart, that you have empathy, that you are willing to hold space for the complexities of suffering, of grief, of human frailty. That is rare. That is beautiful.

You wrote to me not with condemnation, but with a belief--a belief that life, no matter how hard, must be lived. A belief that we must endure. A belief that those left behind must move on without guilt, without shame, without the burden of endless questioning. And I hear you.

I honor your voice.

I honor your sincerity.

And yet, I ask--why must suffering be endured?

Not to contradict you, not to diminish what you feel, but simply to stretch the conversation further. To widen the lens.

Because if one thing is true, it is this: suffering should never be inevitable. Suffering should never be a duty. Suffering should never be the price we pay for existence.

This is not a game of karma and atonement. This is not a test where pain earns points toward redemption. If one suffers, we all suffer. If one soul drowns in despair, the ripples touch us all.

What logic is there in believing that any of God's children are born to suffer? That the weight of a past life, of an unknown deed, must be carried forward like an invisible shackle? If we believe in a divine presence, in a creator, in a force that moves through us, then surely that presence is one of love--not of punishment.

Who are we to police the morality of another?

Who are we to assume that pain is a price to be paid for sins we cannot even name?

And if we, as people, as humans, as a collective, do anything in this world, let it not be this--let it not be standing on a pedestal telling another that their suffering is necessary, that their endurance is demanded, that their pain is meant to teach them something greater. No.

Let us stand, instead, in grace.

Let us sit beside the suffering, not above them.

Let us say, I may not understand your pain, but I see it. I may not feel what you feel, but I acknowledge it. And I am here.

Let us replace karma with compassion.

Let us replace atonement with empathy.

Because the reader who wrote to me did not write to wound.

They wrote to reach out.

They wrote because they care.

And caring is everything.

It is in this, in conversation, in exchange, in stretching our thoughts beyond what we have always known, that we grow. That we evolve. That we, as a people, become softer, wiser, stronger--not alone, but together.

And so I do not close any doors.

I do not slam shut this conversation.

I do not tell this reader they are wrong, because who among us holds all the answers?

Instead, I say: there is another way of looking at it.

Perhaps, one day, you will see it.

Perhaps, one day, you will not.

And that is okay.

Because this world does not need more certainty, more absolutes, more rigid rules that dictate how one must feel, how one must grieve, how one must live.

This world needs more dialogue.

More grace.

More hands reaching out.

Just like this reader reached out to me.

And in that, there is hope.

In that, there is love.

And in love, perhaps, we will find our way through.

But let me tell you why I ask these questions.

Let me tell you why I do not believe that suffering must be endured simply because it exists.

Let me tell you what it means to wake up in a body that betrays you.

When I lost my sight, when the world around me darkened into a shadowy mass of blurred figures, when I could no longer trust my own two eyes--why should I have wanted to live? When the life I built, the sweat and struggle I poured into a world I could see, crumbled before me and my eyes no longer worked, what was left to hold on to?

I understand the abyss because I have stood at its edge.

I know what it is to stop eating, not out of hunger, but out of refusal. Out of the simple, sharp-edged thought: I don't want this life anymore.

It is easy to praise the blind who are born blind. The ones who learn to see without eyes, who smile with the strength of knowing no other way.

But what of those who had sight and lost it?

What of those who had love and lost it?

What of those who had meaning and lost it?

Tell me, must they suffer for the comfort of those who love them? Must they live because their absence would wound others, even when their presence is a wound unto themselves?

And if we insist on endurance, then let me tell you of endurance.

Some nights, I cry while washing my hair, not from sadness, but from exhaustion. From the sheer, bone-deep exhaustion of fighting a battle that I did not sign up for, that I did not volunteer for, that I do not want.

And I ask myself again--is this a life worth living?

Kabir, that wise, wandering mystic, said:

"Bhala hua meri matki phoot gayi,

mujhe paani bharan se chhoot mili."

How good it is that my water pitcher broke.

I am free from carrying water.

How good it is.

A saint, a poet, a visionary--romancing death. Not fearing it. Not mourning it. Not calling it cowardice.

And yet, we insist that suffering is duty.

Why?

Why do we insist that those who are drowning must keep swimming, even when their arms are broken?

Why do we insist that pain must be endured to its bitter, unbearable end?

But today, my friends called.

They did not tell me that suffering was my duty. They did not tell me that my pain was my atonement. They did not tell me that I had to endure for the sake of karma.

They told me I mattered.

They told me they loved me.

They told me that while they did not understand my pain, while they could not feel my suffering, they wanted me to know I was not alone.

And that--that--is what makes all the difference.

If you wish to help someone suffering, tell them this.

Tell them:

I don't understand your pain.

I don't feel it.

But I am sorry.

I wish I could do something.

You are brave.

Thank you for holding on.

Thank you for teaching me.

Tell them that, and you give them a reason to stay.

Because, in the end, the only thing that ever saves us is love. (ANI/ Suvir Saran)

Disclaimer: Suvir Saran is a Masterchef, Author, Hospitality Consultant And Educator. The views expressed in this article are his own.