The River and the Fog - A Morning of Clarity

This morning, I woke to a world wrapped in soft fog, the kind that hushes the earth and invites introspection. The air was cool, the sky a gentle gray, and as I stepped outside for my walk, I felt the quiet beauty of it all seep into me. I exercised, swept the floors, mopped the house until it gleamed, and brewed a warm cup of coffee—small rituals that grounded me in the present. I called my parents, wished them well, and smiled at the simplicity of caring for those I love. It was a morning of peace, a slow-flowing river carving its path through my day.

But rivers, even the calmest ones, sometimes meet stones. My wife shared news that stirred the waters: her parents were coming to visit their brother—her uncle—who’d fallen ill and was in the hospital nearby. Naturally, she invited them to stop by our home, so close to their destination. I imagined the scene—me brewing coffee again, chatting about wellness or the weather, my dog Kaala nudging me for attention as I try to keep the conversation light. Yet, my mother-in-law’s response was a pebble dropped into my calm: “I don’t come to your house because your husband doesn’t talk to me or spend time with me.”

The words stung, not because they were sharp, but because they felt like a mirror held at an odd angle—one that didn’t reflect the me I know. I’ve always been the one to welcome them, to sit with them, to fill the air with words when they visit. I speak of health, of life’s small joys, steering clear of politics or religion—topics that seem to bind them to my wife’s other brother-in-law in ways I can’t replicate. They share a rhythm I don’t dance to: debates about gods and money, a love for specific flavors tied to their Brahmin roots. I don’t join in, not because I disdain it, but because my tune is different. I worry my questions—gentle challenges to their beliefs—might bruise their comfort, so I hold back, choosing silence over discord.

And yet, there’s more to this current. They visit during the week, when I’m upstairs in my office, tending to customers, building my work with the same care I sweep my floors. Who can sit and chat during those hours? I’ve told my wife it’s unfair to pin their reluctance on me, and she looked puzzled, caught between love for her parents and loyalty to me. I felt a pang—not anger, but a quiet sadness. Perhaps they see my questions, my different way, as a wall, when to me it’s just a bridge I don’t know how to cross. Maybe I’m the excuse they need to avoid something else, a convenient reason to say no to their daughter.

This morning, though, as the fog lifted and the sun peeked through, I chose not to linger in that eddy. They’re planning a ritual for my son now, an initiation steeped in their traditions. I don’t believe in it—not the way they do—but I’ve said yes, letting it flow past me like water around a stone. It’s not my resistance to carry. The river doesn’t argue with the trees or the birds; it moves where it can, carving its path with grace or force as needed. Animals know this too—they adapt, survive, unburdened by overthinking or clinging to beliefs.

Society, I think, is full of these quiet clashes—where love and difference tangle, where we’re misread or misplaced, where we’re blamed for currents we didn’t start. But this morning taught me something: I can’t control the fog others see me through, nor the stones they toss into my stream. I can only keep flowing—cleaning my house, brewing my coffee, loving my wife and son, walking my dog. The river doesn’t stop for resistance; it finds a way, or it makes one, until it meets the sea.

And so, I let the morning be beautiful. I let it be mine.