Yes! I am a liar.
Yes! I Am a Liar: A Father’s Story About Lying for Love
A story about the lies we tell for love, and the price they carry.
The Man Who Was Always Busy
In the Mehra house, one sentence belonged entirely to Harish: “Not today, I have work.”
Sunday picnic? Work. Meera’s college farewell? Work. Sarla’s birthday dinner, circled on the calendar for a month? Work again, and a cold plate waiting at midnight.
His family stopped asking. They started keeping score instead.
“Papa has time for everyone except us,” Rohan said one evening, loud enough to carry into the next room.
Harish heard every word. He went on folding his shirt and said nothing.
Six Months
The headaches began in March. By May, the scan lay on Dr. Kapoor’s desk.
“It’s a tumour, Mr. Mehra,” the doctor said gently. “It can’t be operated on at this stage. With treatment, perhaps six months.”
Harish asked only one question. “If I tell my family, what changes?”
“Everything,” Dr. Kapoor said. “They will begin grieving today.”
He drove home slowly and sat outside the gate for twenty minutes. Through the window, he could see Sarla laughing at something Meera had said. Rohan was arguing about cricket with his mouth full.
Six months of that laughter, or six months of a house waiting for a funeral.
He had decided before he switched off the engine. He would give them the laughter.
The Lies
So the lies began, small and careful.
“A supplier meeting,” he said, and drove to the hospital. “Dust at the shop,” he said, pressing his temples. “Just age,” he told Sarla when she found him resting at noon.
Every skipped picnic was a day of treatment. Every missed dinner was a scan, or an afternoon spent lying very still while the pain passed.
His family grew angrier, and Harish let them. A man cannot explain himself without ruining the lie.
On the back of a pharmacy bill, he wrote a short list. Business for Rohan. Meera’s wedding. Sarla, safe. Beneath it, in smaller letters: Make her tea.
What He Built
With a small loan and every rupee of his savings, Harish opened a sweet shop on Station Road. He brought Rohan in as his partner. “A young man should learn business early,” he said.
Rohan grumbled at first. Soon he loved it. By the fourth month, the counter was crowded before sunrise.
That same month, Harish insisted on fixing Meera’s wedding. The boy was good, and the family was kind.
“So soon?” Sarla protested. “Let her breathe!”
“Good proposals don’t wait,” he said. His voice was steady. Under the table, his hand was not.
He gave Meera away in the sixth month, smiling without a single slip. When she hugged him goodbye, she whispered, “Papa, you’ve been so strange lately.”
He kissed her forehead. “Fathers get strange when daughters leave, beta.”
The next morning, he placed the shop keys in Rohan’s palm. “From today, it’s yours.”
“Papa, you’ve barely started!”
“I’m tired, son. Let an old man rest.” It was the only sentence he spoke that day that was entirely true.
In those last weeks, he did what he had never done in thirty years. He made Sarla’s tea every morning. He sat beside her on the veranda, saying little, memorising the way she tucked her hair behind her ear.
“You’ve become so soft,” she teased.
“Maybe I finally became sensible,” he said.
He lived seven months, one more than promised. Sarla would later say it was the month he stayed for her.
The Drawer
He died on a quiet November morning, in his own bed, with her hand in his.
Three days later, Rohan opened the steel drawer his father had always kept locked. Inside lay a will, a bundle of hospital papers tied with a rubber band, and an envelope in Harish’s careful handwriting: For all of you. Read it together.
They sat on the floor, Sarla in the middle. Rohan read aloud.
“My dear family,
By the time you read this, I can no longer lie to you. So let me begin with the truth: yes, I am a liar.
Every time I said I was busy, I lied. I was not in meetings. Ic was in hospital corridors, with a tumour the doctors could not remove and a clock none of us could stop.
I know what you believed. That I loved my work more than you. Each time your faces fell, I wanted to tell you everything. And each time, I looked at your smiles and could not take them away.
I chose to give you six happy months instead of six months of waiting. Ic’ may have chosen wrongly. I took your goodbye from you, and that is not a small thing. If you cannot forgive me, I understand.
But look at what the lie bought. Rohan, the shop is yours, and the loan is cleared. Meera, your wedding is paid for. Sarla, this house is in your name, and every rupee I had is yours. The tea was the only way I knew to say what I could not.
I lied about my pain. I never lied about my love. Not once.
Your Papa”
After the Lie
Nobody spoke for a long time.
Then Sarla untied the hospital papers. Each date matched a missed dinner. Each “meeting” had a doctor’s name beside it.
Meera remembered the whisper at her wedding. Rohan walked to the shop that night and stood behind the counter in the dark.
The next morning, Sarla made two cups of tea out of habit. She drank both.
The Truth Behind the Lie: Why Do People Lie?
Harish was no villain. Still, his lie had a cost. So let’s look at lying honestly.
Why people lie. Mostly for four reasons:
- To protect someone they love. This was Harish’s reason.
- To protect themselves from blame, shame or punishment.
- To avoid conflict. The everyday “I’m fine” belongs here.
- To gain something, such as money, status or advantage. This is the lie that does real harm.
What a lie can give. Time, peace and hope. A protective lie can hold a family together through a storm.
What a lie costs. It takes away someone’s choice. Harish’s family lost their goodbye and years of understanding him. Lies also multiply, because one needs another to survive. The liar carries the secret alone. And trust, once cracked, rarely mends cleanly.
Is lying a sin? Most wise traditions judge intent first. A lie told to cheat or harm is not the same act as a lie told to shield someone from pain. Harish’s lie was love in disguise. But even a kind lie is a debt, and someone always repays it. He paid first, in loneliness. His family paid later, in the goodbye they never got.
What to take from this:
- Before you lie “for their good,” ask whether you are protecting them or protecting yourself.
- Trust people with big truths when you can. They are often stronger than you fear.
- If you carry a heavy secret, tell at least one person you trust. No one should carry it alone.
- Give your time while you have it. Say “I love you” before you say “I’m busy.”
- When someone is always “busy,” ask gently what they are carrying before you judge.
Pyaar ke jhooth ko samjho, par pyaar ko kabhi mat chhupao. (Understand the lie told out of love, but never hide the love itself.)
Some people lie. Look closely. Sometimes it is only love, wearing a disguise.
Lie ≠ Sin – “Thankyou-Dad”
