Of Soya Meat and the quiet ways we are loved

There was a story that brought tears to my eyes recently during a session with a 14-year-old. This is one of those moments to reflect – as a therapist, I have to understand why it got me so emotionally involved. I suppose it was the way the boy described the situation; I stepped out of my counsellor role and into over-empathizing with his story.

He is someone who was abandoned by both his parents – his father first, then his mother, and later came a stepfather. Since then, he has been cared for by his grandparents and now stays in a hostel to complete his schooling. Naturally, he struggles with abandonment issues and low self-esteem. Yet, despite it all, he is powering through his journey and thriving with therapy.

He was talking about loss – how unlucky he was to have ‘everyone’ leave him. Such is the nature of our mind; it doesn’t always let us see the whole truth. He does have his grandparents caring for him, loving him like parents. But when the mind is in a weak place, it refuses to see the love that remains and instead focuses only on the love that was lost.

So, I had to intervene to help him see that he was leaving out part of the truth.

“Would you like to tell me more about your grandparents? Your achchi really came through for you when there was nothing. How does that feel when you think about it?”

His face lit up – perhaps from the realization that not ‘everyone’ had abandoned him. Some people stay. For reasons we can’t always explain.

Then he started to talk about how he wanted to go home to see them.

“You know, miss, my achchi is really my mother. She understands what I need. I love her so much.

You know, I love a good soya meat curry. But here in the hostel, you can’t really ask for what you like to eat.

Last time I was home, I thought about it, but I didn’t really ask for it.

The night before I was supposed to leave for Colombo, we were talking before bed. I was leaving after breakfast, but she had to go to work early, so she wanted to spend a little time with me. I can’t even remember what we spoke about – just random things, maybe. But at some point, we talked about food, and I mentioned how much I love the way she cooks soya meat. We hadn’t had it in a while, so I said, maybe next visit we should have it. Then we talked some more and went to sleep.

The next morning, when I woke up, she had already left for work. She knows I like to sleep in when I’m home. She never disturbs me. At the hostel, everything runs on routine, but at home, I get to rest a little.

I got ready, already a bit late to catch the bus to Colombo. When I went to serve breakfast, I froze. She had made soya meat. Just the way I liked it.

I knew we didn’t have a packet of soya meat at home, so she must have gone to the shop early that morning before leaving for work.

When I got to Colombo, she called. I told her I arrived safely. Then she asked if I had breakfast and I could hear the excitement in her voice.

I told her it was the best soya meat curry she’d ever made.

She really is like a parent, noh miss?”

I could see the shift in his mood – the reminder that he still has a strong support system around him, and that he is grateful for it.

But as I listened, my mind played a trick on me. It reminded me that, like him, I don’t have a mother. Worse still, I don’t have a grandmother either – someone who’d surprise me with my favourite dish.

That night, I cried before going to sleep.