“Why Did You Give Birth to Me?” — A Moment That Changed Amitabh Bachchan Forever

 

Exasperated by the mounting pressures of life, Amitabh Bachchan once found himself unable to contain his emotions — and questioned the very reason for his existence.

“Angered, frustrated, and overwhelmed by unreasonable thoughts, I walked into my father’s study one evening,” Amitabh recalled. “For the first time in my life, with a choked voice and tears in my eyes, I raised my voice at him and screamed, ‘Why did you give birth to me? Aapne humein paida kyun kiya?’”

His father, the legendary poet Harivansh Rai Bachchan, was deeply engrossed in his writing, as always. Startled at first, he soon composed himself and looked at his son with calm understanding. The two sat in silence — neither speaking, neither moving. “Not a sound,” Amitabh remembered. “The night that followed was uncomfortable and heavy.”

The next morning, Harivansh Rai quietly walked up to his son and handed him a folded piece of paper. On it was a poem titled “Nayi Leek” (A New Path) — his poetic response to the question that had shaken the silence the night before.

In the poem, the father wrote that his son had asked why he was brought into this world, burdened as he was by the problems and tensions of life — a question for which the father had no answer. His own father had never asked him before giving him life, nor had his grandfather asked his father, nor his great-grandfather before that.
“Why not begin anew?” the poem urged. “The struggles and pressures of life have only grown and will continue to increase in the days to come. So, create a new way of thinking — ask your sons before bringing them into this world.

Reflecting on his father’s profound response, Amitabh later wrote on his blog, encouraging readers to take ownership of their lives:

“There are no excuses in life and no one to blame. Every morning brings a new challenge. Either you pick up the gauntlet and fight, or you surrender to it. So long as there is life, there is struggle.”

Harivansh Rai Bachchan passed away in 2003 at the age of 95, but his wisdom continues to guide generations — reminding us that life, no matter how difficult, is a journey meant to be faced with courage and reflection.

The Two Rupees

After lunch, when the teacher returned to class, I noticed a small sheet of paper in her hand.

It was stamps. She tore it carefully into pieces, handing one to each of us.
“Tomorrow,” she said, “everyone must bring two rupees.”

The whole class nodded in agreement, and I, without thinking, nodded too.
I slipped the stamp into my notebook and thought nothing more of it.

On my way home from school, my mind wandered to the empty mustard jar and the little betel box on my mother’s shelf.
Why had I joined the others in nodding?
As I walked along the ridge beside the fields, I wondered if I should return the stamp the next morning and tell the teacher I didn’t want it.
But what if she got upset? What if she scolded me in front of everyone? I didn’t know.

After crossing the field and the narrow bridge made of banana trunks, I reached home.
Mother was in the courtyard, gathering and tying the fallen snake-gourd vines she had been tending with care.
Grandmother had just come back from the garden, peeling the husks off freshly picked areca nuts.

“Is Kannan home?” Mother asked, taking my schoolbag from my shoulder and placing it on the verandah ledge.
“Shall I make you some tea?” she added, walking into the kitchen.

I sat quietly on the verandah. The wind from the fields blew cool and soft, but deep inside, I felt a faint, heavy warmth.
When Mother brought the tea, it tasted less sweet than usual.
I didn’t ask her why.

Later, when Mother handed me the grocery bag and asked me to buy a few items, I went to Ramu, the grocer.
He looked at me and said bluntly,
“Settle what you owe first — only then can you buy the next lot. If everyone starts doing this, I might as well shut down the shop.”

A faint laugh escaped from a few people standing nearby — someone trying to hide their amusement.
I didn’t look to see who it was.
To keep my tears from falling, I turned and ran home.

Mother was still standing on the verandah.
When she saw the empty grocery bag in my hand, she didn’t say a word.
Something flickered across her face and disappeared before I could name it.
As she wiped her eyes and went inside, she glanced for a moment at Father’s photograph hanging on the wall.
I thought — if only he were here, perhaps all this sadness would vanish.

The next morning, I woke with a strange heaviness.
I didn’t feel like going to school.
Would my classmates whisper or laugh behind my back, like Ramu at the shop?
But how could I stay home with no reason?
And I couldn’t lie to Mother either.

Before leaving, I looked into the kitchen — at the mustard jar —
hoping to find, maybe, a stray two-rupee coin hidden somewhere,
something that could save a fourth-grader’s pride.
But there wasn’t even a mustard seed left inside.

When the school bell rang, my chest tightened.
After attendance, the teacher said,
“Now, one by one, bring your money for the stamp.”

I looked around — my face was the only one pale and tense.
“What’s wrong, Kannan? Didn’t do your homework?” she asked.
“Yes… I did,” I whispered.

She said nothing more. The next boy went up and placed his two rupees neatly on the desk.
Then it was Sreekuttan’s turn.

By the time I stood up slowly, the teacher said,
“Sreekuttan’s mother gave his money yesterday.”

I froze. I hadn’t told my mother anything —
then how could she have given it?

After school, I ran home and asked,
“Amma, did you see Rajalakshmi teacher yesterday?”
“No, I didn’t go anywhere,” she said.
“Really, you didn’t?”
“No, dear. Why, what happened? Did you do something wrong?”
“No, nothing…”

The next day, I went straight to the teacher.
“If my mother didn’t give it, then how did you get the two rupees?” I asked.

She brushed the hair from my forehead and smiled softly.
“Teachers are mothers too,” she said.
“And remember, you should never have to run past Ramu’s shop with tears in your eyes.
Whatever you need, just tell your teacher.”

I didn’t even realize that tears were streaming down again —
but this time, they were tears of hope.

Among the half-hidden giggles at Ramu’s shop,
I found someone who knew how to love.
A teacher who protected a fourth-grader’s pride —
not just like a mother,
but truly, a mother herself.