I remember when I was eighteen, I couldn’t wait to get out of my Mum and Dad’s house and be free, be independent, and “become a man”.

And I did, I flew.

I flew out to the United States of immigrants for my undergrad and thought I would never look back – here’s to never living with Mum and Dad again. I was excited to live by myself, at my own beck and call, without the loving heckling of my parents.

The “loving” part here is key. There was no trouble at home.

My parents were and are awesome.

They found the right balance between letting me be and making sure I didn’t veer off the “right” path. They were strict but fair, putting me up on a pedestal only when I deserved it. And when I didn’t, encouraging the punishment I deserved, without ever making me doubt their love. I was a naughty kid.

They were protective but reasonable. I remember in tenth grade I bullied them into sending me to the UK for a football training camp for ten whole days. The important part was that I wanted to go alone. I had to go alone, and I wouldn’t have it any other way. Fine, said the father, but do some research first, and make sure you’re getting a good deal.

My parents were always ahead of their time. They saw the value in looking at education from a more global perspective, encouraging me to switch to IB even before I thought it was cool. But Dad, I want to be Headboy in this school. Okay they said, and no, I didn’t become Headboy.

It also helped that Dad was a sexologist on the side. When I was about 14, I remember him asking me to make a PowerPoint about testicular cancer. He said, Anish, should I call it “Know Your Testicles” or “Know Your Balls.”

And I looked at him a little bewildered, thinking I rather not know anything about this.

But you know what, later, when we had “the talk”, it went from awkward to comfortable at lightning speed.

There was no official Sex Education in Dubai, where I grew up. To solve for that, I only recently found out that they used to intentionally leave Sex Ed books lying around in “convenient” locations so that I could happen upon them when they weren’t around. And yes, I did happen upon them, and so did my friends. Friggin’ geniuses.

Both my parents are doctors and have served people all their lives. Despite that (and them being Indian and all) they let me go to the US to study Sports Management. Yes, they were okay spending their hard-earned money on Sports Management.

They have always believed in me. And believed that I should pursue what I believe in. I look back at it now and wonder if they hadn’t let me study Sports Management (my “passion” back then), I would have always carried a level of resentment with me. Three months into the program, I realized it was a waste of money, and swiftly enrolled into the Business School.

When I left for the US, my mother got a rash on her back. When she went to the doctor to get it checked out, he said it was probably because her son had just left home. I never learnt about this until much later. And I remember right then, during my first winter vacation in the US, I chose not to go home to see my parents, because hey, I spent the last eighteen years with them, that’s enough.

I saw them only once or maybe twice a year while I was abroad. And I always made it seem like it was a big deal. Maa, I’m busy, work’s crazy, I don’t have the time.

I have only recently realized that I will never have enough time with Mum and Dad.

At my rock bottom, when I was working in New York, they visited. I was lost and depressed, unsure about who I was and what I wanted to do.

I will never forget that conversation we had in Fort Greene Park. I had a good job, was making great money, my company had applied for my Green Card, but all I wanted to do was quit. And do something “better”. But was it worth giving up this life I had that almost everyone dreams of?

I remember explaining this to them – distraught, confused, lost, looking to them for some sort of approval, some sort of a push while trying to mask my shame.

What I got back from them was clarity. It’s time, they said, to quit and do something better.

My parents, who don’t come from much money, who have worked their butts off to make money so that my sister and I could have a more comfortable life, were telling me it’s okay to just give this continued, guaranteed “success” up to pursue something “better”? No drama? No confusion? No apprehension? Anish, what’s the worst that can happen, we are here na.

It has been the most pivotal decision I have made – quitting. And it has been the best thing that has happened to me so far. Ever since, I have found contentment in purpose, and in work that I feel really matters.

All the while, my parents have cheered me on, from afar but still somehow always right there next to me, especially when it matters most.

Besides literally creating me, I can’t stress how important they have been in shaping me, and in empowering me to be the best version of myself, without expecting anything in return, besides maybe a phone call. I will forever be grateful.

They’re almost 70 now, about to retire. They want to remain forever young, but no amount of hair dye can hide that they are getting older, a little tired.

Retirement was always going to be in India. For twenty-five years, Dubai has been great to them, but never home. Home was going to be Aurangabad, until I moved to Pune. Ma, Dad why would you move to Aurangabad if I am in Pune?

They said, Anish, you never asked.

And there’s the irony of it all. My parents have raised their children to never ask anyone to do anything they don’t want to. To be independent. To serve. So how could I ask my parents to move to Pune just for me? Turns out they were thinking the same.

This infinite loop of misunderstood love is the most drama there has been, at least so far. And I hope it stays that way.

Fifteen years after I left my Mum and Dad’s house, I have now realized that home is where the whole is. And as they retire into their last chapter, I rather be nowhere besides right next to them, back at home.

*****