Why one father’s story concerns us all, a lesson from Vijaypat Singhania.
Dr. Ashraf Zainabi
Will our children do this to us, my wife asked me, I said never InshaAllah, I said it almost instantly. Not even thinking for a moment, even after watching 87-year-old Vijaypat Singhania speak, slowly, carefully, almost as if every word carried weight. He wasn’t speaking like a businessman. There was no authority in his tone, no command. Just a father, looking back.
He said he made a mistake. He handed over everything, his wealth, his companies, his house, his control, to his son while he was still alive. It must have felt natural at the time. Almost right. And then, one day, he found himself out of his own home. It is easy to react with shock. But if we are honest, what unsettles us is something else, the realization that we would have probably done the same. Because that sentence, “my child will never do this to me”, does not come from naivety. It comes from love.
And love, especially the parents carry, does not think like the world does. It doesn’t weigh probabilities. It doesn’t imagine worst-case scenarios. It remembers a small hand held tightly years ago. It remembers dependence, trust, innocence. Somehow, in a parent’s mind, that version of the child never completely disappears.
Religion has always tried to hold this relationship together with moral force. In Islam, respect for parents is not just encouraged, it is commanded. You are told not to even show the slightest irritation. Not a word, not a gesture like “uff”. It is a powerful ethic. At the same time, the same tradition quietly reminds us that children and wealth are also tests. Not rewards, not guarantees, but tests. That distinction matters, though we rarely think about it when we are living comfortably inside our assumptions.
In societies like ours, family has never been just about emotion. It carries economics, identity, even status. Property moves within families. Authority passes down. There is an unspoken belief that what is built by one generation will be protected by the next.
But something is shifting. Not dramatically, not overnight, but steadily. Families are smaller. Lives are more individual. The idea of “duty” is slowly being replaced by the idea of “choice.” And choice can change.
Sociologists have been talking about this for years, though we don’t always notice it in daily life. The joint family system, which once absorbed shocks and responsibilities, is thinning out. What used to be shared is now personal. And when things become personal, they also become negotiable. That’s where the discomfort begins.
Science, in its own way, explains part of this. Human beings are wired to trust their own—near and dear ones. It’s almost biological. We extend more goodwill, more patience, more belief to those who are “ours.” It helped us survive as a species. But it also blinds us in certain situations.
“While parental love remains an unwavering constant of trust and sacrifice, there is a vital need for a shift toward self-reliance. Dignity in old age should be secured through personal agency and foresight rather than depending solely on the benevolence of others.”
Parents don’t evaluate their children like they evaluate the outside world. There is no due diligence, no risk assessment. Just belief. And belief, when it goes unquestioned, can quietly turn into vulnerability.
There’s another side to it as well. Psychologists often point out that gratitude is not automatic. It has to be learned, reinforced, lived. When everything is given too easily, too early, it can sometimes create a sense of entitlement rather than appreciation. Not always, but often enough to matter.
None of this means children are ungrateful by default. That would be unfair. In fact, most families function with care, respect, and quiet understanding. Those stories don’t travel far because they don’t shock us. They confirm what we already believe. But the exceptions, like the one we saw in the life of Vijaypat Singhania, force us to pause.
Even the state, in its own limited way, has tried to step in. There are laws now that allow parents to seek maintenance from their children. Legal protections exist. But laws come late. They enter after relationships have already fractured. They can address injustice, but they cannot restore warmth. They can order support, but not respect. And so, quietly, the responsibility circles back to the individual. To the parent.
That is perhaps the hardest part to accept. Because it feels almost like a betrayal of love to think in terms of safeguards and structures. To hold back, even a little, feels unnatural. Almost wrong. But maybe it isn’t. Maybe it is simply another form of care, care for oneself.
Loving your child and protecting your own dignity do not have to be opposites. They can exist together, though we are not always taught how. It could mean not transferring everything at once. It could mean keeping some control, some independence. It could mean planning for a future where you are not entirely dependent on someone else’s choices. Not because you expect the worst. But because life does not always follow expectation.
What stays with me from Vijaypat Singhania’s story is not anger. It is not even judgment. It is a quiet unease. The kind that lingers. Because it forces a question we would rather avoid, how much of what we believe about family is based on reality, and how much on hope? And hope, as beautiful as it is, is not always a plan.
In the end, perhaps nothing changes about love. Parents will continue to trust, to give, to believe, because that is what they do. But maybe, just maybe, there is room for a small shift. Not less love. Just a little more awareness. So that dignity in old age does not depend entirely on someone else’s goodness, but rests, at least in part, in one’s own hands.
(The author is a teacher and a researcher based in Gowhar Pora Chadoora of Central Kashmir’s Budgam district. The views, opinions and conclusions expressed in this article are those of the author and aren’t necessarily in accord with the views of “Kashmir Horizon”)
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