The want of forgiveness: a reckoning, a redemption, a release

New Delhi [India], January 30 : There comes a time in every life when the past starts pressing down like a storm cloud too heavy to hold its rain. It sits there, bloated with all that was, all that should have been, all that we wish we could rewrite. And if you listen closely, in the silence of a sleepless night, you can hear it whisper--reminding you of the words you shouldn't have said, the ones you didn't say enough, the mistakes you made, the people you hurt, the hands you should have held instead of letting go.
I've been there.
I know the feeling of carrying something inside that gnaws at the edges of your soul, turning every quiet moment into a courtroom where you stand trial against yourself. The guilt, the regret, the shame of it--it clings, it carves, it cages. And you wonder, what does it even mean to want forgiveness?
Because wanting forgiveness isn't just about asking for it. It's not about reciting an apology like a script, hoping for a quick absolution. No, it's deeper than that. It's standing in the wreckage of what was, looking at it without turning away, and saying--I did that. I was wrong. And I want to be better.
It's uncomfortable. Humbling. Stripping. It's taking your pride, that thick, stubborn thing that wraps around you like armor, and peeling it off piece by piece until you're standing there, raw and real, saying, I see my fault. And I hope you see my heart.
But before the world can grant you grace, before the people you've hurt can decide whether or not to welcome you back, there's a harder question--Can you forgive yourself?
And that... that's the battle, isn't it?
I've walked that road. I know what it's like to kneel at the feet of my own conscience, my hands bloody from clawing at the past, wishing I could change it. I've seen the face of regret staring back at me in the mirror, asking--Who are you to be forgiven? What right do you have?
And I've also seen the way life, for all its relentless truths, bends towards grace.
I remember my mother's voice, steady as always, firm but gentle. "Baba, do you mind saying sorry to your aunt and your cousins?"
And of course, I minded. Who doesn't? No one likes to revisit their wrongs, to bow their head and admit fault. But I did it anyway. Because love, real love, asks that of us. It asks us to lay down our pride and pick up the pieces of what we've broken.
So I didn't just say sorry--I called and left messages. I texted. I wrote it. I put it into words, put it into the world, let it breathe in a way that made me feel as exposed as standing in the middle of a crowded street with my soul turned inside out. I sent the message. I made the call. I laid it bare.
My mother read it all--the column, the note, the unspoken ache between the words. And she didn't promise me forgiveness. She didn't tell me I'd be welcomed back with open arms. She didn't sugarcoat it.
She just said, "You have done more than you were called to do, Baba."
And there, in those simple words, I understood something.
Maybe forgiveness isn't something you're owed. Maybe it's something you offer yourself first. Maybe it's not a transaction where you confess, and the world cleans the slate. Maybe it's a process, a slow becoming, a growing into someone who no longer carries the weight of what was.
And if we want to be forgiven, we have to learn to forgive.
I think of Rashmi Uday Singh, the legendary food critic of The Times of India, the voice of Mumbai's culinary scene, a woman who has spent decades traveling the world, finding joy in food and connection, bringing people together over shared meals and shared moments. A student of my father's at the Income Tax Academy in Nagpur, a dear friend, a storyteller who understands that food is never just food--it is history, it is heritage, it is heart. She's the kind of person who doesn't just eat her way across continents--she gathers stories, she builds bridges, she opens doors. And in the most casual, yet profound way, she once told me something that has never left me.
"Life is an echo chamber, Suvir. You reap as you sow."
It stopped me in my tracks.
Because I had heard it before--from my mother, from poets, from saints and scriptures. And yet, hearing it from her, in that moment, it felt new. Maybe because she's lived it. Maybe because she has seen, firsthand, how the world gives back what we put into it.
You want love? You have to give it.
You want peace? You have to offer it.
You want forgiveness? You have to learn how to forgive.
But how often do we hold onto grudges like heirlooms, polishing them, protecting them, letting them take up space in our hearts as if they are something precious? How often do we sharpen our bitterness into knives, never realizing we are the ones bleeding?
Not my mother.
She wakes up every morning with the lightness of someone who refuses to be weighed down. She does not collect resentments like pebbles in her pockets. She does not let yesterday's pain steal today's joy. She takes what is good, and she lets go of the rest. She moves through life unburdened, not because she hasn't been hurt, but because she has chosen, time and time again, not to carry what doesn't serve her.
"Carpe diem," she tells me. "Let go. Let live. Let love."
And I try. I try to be the kind of man who does not hoard his hurts, who does not let wounds fester, who does not let his own stubbornness stand in the way of healing. I try to be the kind of man who forgives, because I know what it's like to be forgiven.
But there are nights--oh, there are nights--when regret still comes knocking. When the ghosts of my mistakes linger in the doorway. And I ask myself, in the quiet, Do you deserve to be forgiven?
And maybe the answer isn't about deserving it. Maybe the answer is in choosing it.
Because I think of the ones who have forgiven me. The friends who took me back after I failed them. The family who embraced me despite my missteps. The ones who saw me at my worst and still, still, chose love over resentment.
So I whisper into the night, not as an answer, but as a promise.
I have failed. But I have asked. And I have grown. And that is enough.
Because forgiveness isn't a finish line. It isn't a contract. It isn't a debt to be settled. It is a rhythm, a tide, a cycle as old as time itself. It is the language of the universe, the melody of the heart, the whispered truth beneath every prayer.
It is the moment when the wound meets the salve.
It is the inhale before the exhale.
It is the closing of an eye and the opening of a heart.
It is the letting go.
It is the reaching out.
It is the becoming whole.
And in the end, that is all we can do.
To stand in the wreckage of what was and whisper--
"I was wrong. I am sorry. Forgive me."
And then, to set ourselves free. (ANI/Suvir Saran)
Disclaimer: Suvir Saran is a Masterchef, Author, Hospitality Consultant And Educator. The views expressed in this article are his own.