“दिल के रिश्तों को निभाने में, आवाज़ नहीं चाहिए,
मौन का दर्द भी कई बार, चीखों से भारी होता है।”
In our lives, there are moments when we walk away from those who can’t defend themselves—people who are helpless, under our care, unable to voice their pain or challenge our decisions. It’s easy to think of this as just another instance of moving on, but why does it often feel effortless to leave someone who is most vulnerable?
Is it because their silence makes it easier? When we don’t hear their cries or understand their pain, we can push their suffering into the background. Out of sight, out of mind. They might be relying on us, but if they can’t express it in words, we convince ourselves it isn’t our responsibility anymore.
This reminds me of an old stuffed teddy bear I once had—a birthday gift from my dear brother that I carried everywhere. I took good care of him, and he was my silent but constant companion. He stayed with me while I studied late into the night, he roamed around the house wherever I went. After marriage, I left him behind in my maternal home, and over the years, I had forgotten all about him.
On one annual visit, I saw him by chance, and all the beautiful, warm, fuzzy feelings came rushing back. I brought him home with me and proudly placed him near my bed, feeling the joy of having him back in my life.
But over time, I noticed he was gathering dust, and this could trigger the allergic rhinitis that my child suffers from! Without hesitation, I placed him on the top shelf of a cupboard—a dark, lonely place where I could no longer see him daily.
Months have passed since I placed him there, and he has slowly lost his place in my life once again. He has been pushed to the back of the shelf, forgotten amid the excitement of new things and experiences.
I didn’t consciously decide to let go of him, but it happened. There was no dramatic goodbye, no moment of realization; it just happened, slowly, silently. The bear, once the most important thing in my world, had become something that no longer mattered. He hadn’t changed; I had. The bear didn’t protest, didn’t demand attention. He simply waited—and still waits.
It’s easier to let go of things—or people—when they don’t cry out for attention or fight for a place in our lives. When there’s no noise, no confrontation, we can quietly walk away without feeling the weight of what we’ve left behind.
But why do we stop caring?
In a world that glorifies independence and strength, we’re conditioned to value things and people who serve our present needs. The helpless, the ones who need care, often become burdens without us even realizing it. We stop seeing them as valuable as they once were, and instead, they become responsibilities we quietly push aside.
Yet, the more I think about it, the more I realize that our willingness to distance ourselves from the defenseless says more about us than about them. It’s an indictment of our own emotional laziness, our failure to rise to the occasion when we’re needed most. It reflects how we sometimes choose convenience over compassion, self-preservation over empathy.
We distance ourselves from the helpless not because they’re unworthy, but because we’re not willing to shoulder the responsibility. We don’t want the guilt or the effort. We fear that taking care of them might somehow weaken us, when in fact, it’s in those moments of helping the helpless that our strength is truly tested.
Maybe the real question isn’t why we find it so easy to let go of the helpless, but rather: why are we so afraid of embracing their need?
When I think of my dear teddy bear, I realize it wasn’t he who had lost his value; it was my neglect and lack of care that led to his abandonment. It’s a reminder that sometimes, the things we leave behind still hold meaning, and it’s our responsibility to cherish them—even when they can’t ask for it. If we continue to turn away from the most vulnerable, one day, we may find ourselves in their place—silenced, waiting for someone who will never return.
