I've recently been enjoying classic American TV series from the '70s, like Little House on the Prairie and The Waltons. An episode from The Waltons (Season 6, Episode 21 – "The Revelation") made me reflect on something deeper. In this episode, John-boy proposes to his girlfriend Daisy, who initially accepts but later changes her mind. Both realise they have other commitments: John-boy, an author, declines a job offer in London for the marriage, while Daisy, a dancer, reconnects with the child she had abandoned. In the end, they part ways, and John-boy takes the job in London. This episode made me reflect on how love is portrayed in American films and TV. The storyline itself isn’t flawed, and The Waltons remains one of my favourite shows. However, it's clear that American media, widely consumed around the world, often promotes the idea that the truest form of love is one that endures despite personal or career ambitions being placed above marriage. This narrative seems to shape the views of people in cultures with different social, cultural, or religious understandings of love. While placing individual ambitions above family may not come naturally to everyone, it resonates with many—especially in my context—since Western media in my country is often seen as infallible, as if it alone holds the ultimate truth about what constitutes healthy, true love. I feel the need to root these reflections in my own experiences, ensuring they have a clear, personal origin, rather than being borrowed in a half-formed way from external sources. My maternal grandfather pursued higher education at Columbia University in the 1950s, specialising in mathematics and statistics. Unlike today, when more Indians have access to such opportunities, back then, very few had the luxury of dreaming on such a grand scale, let alone the resources to turn those dreams into reality. Only a small group of Indians, typically those who were exceptionally ambitious, intelligent, and hardworking, secured scholarships to cover tuition costs, and even then, their families often had to make significant sacrifices to support their living expenses in a country like the U.S. My grandfather was among that small, determined group. He returned to India, more specifically to a small city, turning down promising opportunities at some of the world’s best universities. He left behind colleagues and professors who had high hopes for someone of his calibre. With a PhD in hand, he chose to work as a professor at a modest university so he could be with his parents and wife, both of whom relied on him. Not long after, my mother was born, and she grew up and eventually had children of her own. I saw my grandparents every other day. While others saw my grandfather as strict, unyielding, and sceptical, I knew him to be kind, intelligent, gentle, though admittedly a bit short-tempered. I wasn’t particularly good at maths in school, preferring literature and history instead, so he often helped me with my schoolwork. I have vivid memories of Sunday mornings spent struggling over maths problems, with my grandfather growing more impatient by the minute and my grandmother by his side, scolding him for not letting me take a break to enjoy one of her homemade treats. Truth be told, I was terrified of maths and often struggled with the basics in 9th standard. Here was a man who had worked alongside some of the brightest minds in an Ivy League university, and he had given it all up to come home and teach me trigonometry. Oh what a disappointment I must have been to him! My grandfather fulfilled his family responsibilities with unwavering diligence and devotion. Not once did he complain that his wife, children, or parents had held him back from achieving greater things. I doubt the thought ever even crossed his mind—for him, this was simply how it was supposed to be. Yet, much of his research remained tucked away in a loft beneath the stairs, and on rare occasions, I would catch him poring over those papers with a distant, wistful expression. Like most grandfathers, he had plenty of stories to share, though his were somewhat unique—often centred on his college days, his friends in the U.S., and his travels. As the years went by, his eyesight began to fail, until he was almost completely blind. This, perhaps, was the cruellest twist of fate, as he loved reading. His personal library, which spanned not just scientific works but also great literature—both Indian and Western—was his pride and joy. After my mother passed away, I saw a change in my grandfather that I never thought possible. He had always seemed too stubborn to grow weaker, but in the wake of her loss, he did. He became more introspective, though he still bickered with my grandmother, but now he gave in more easily, and his eyes often glistened when we talked about the past. He enjoyed engaging in deep philosophical discussions, and as I grew older, I like to think I became a good companion for those conversations. A staunch atheist—a point of constant annoyance to my grandmother—he loved to debate matters of faith and religion with me. In what was a thrilling moment for me, he once shared that he had personally known Joseph Campbell, also a Columbia alumnus, before my grandfather’s time. I had first learnt about Campbell after watching The Power of Myth, and most fascinated by his insights, I had followed it up with his book, The Hero with a Thousand Faces. When I mentioned this to my grandfather, he sighed with a sense of strange relief, as if someone had finally grasped something profoundly important to him. In the last few years of his life, he grew reluctant to speak about his college days or his former colleagues. Occasionally, a hint of sadness would surface as he confessed that he no longer liked to think about that time, lamenting that his research had never amounted to much while his peers went on to make significant breakthroughs. In those moments, he became emotional, which was always followed by an apologetic air. Even then, half-blind but ever-determined, he would shuffle through the house, insisting on helping my grandmother lay the table, as if to make up for dwelling on the past. Love takes many forms, and one of them was reflected in my grandfather’s face. He sacrificed his personal ambitions, stepping away from a career at its peak—choices some might view as mistakes. But in choosing to be a better man, he returned to his family. That one decision to place his family above his career made him the steadfast father and husband he was, and the devoted grandfather I was fortunate to have. Now that I’ve lost my parents, I sometimes worry that my children will grow up without one set of grandparents to spoil them and teach them the truths of life in the gentle way only grandparents can. This fear stems from the richness I experienced growing up with my grandparents, knowing what it means to feel truly secure and grounded. I owe that sense of stability to those who put my well-being ahead of their own dreams, making sacrifices so that I could live in the comfort of their love.