When I remember my mother, it makes me really sad. But, when I

The words of Akkineni Nagarjuna flow with the quiet weight of memory and the deep tides of love: “When I remember my mother, it makes me really sad. But, when I remember my father, it makes me smile.” In this saying lies not contradiction, but the dual nature of remembrance. Memory is a mirror of the soul—it can pierce with sorrow, or it can warm with joy. To speak thus of parents is to acknowledge that each left a different mark upon the heart, that the legacy of their lives is written not only in deeds but in the emotions they awaken long after they are gone.

The mother is the first shelter, the one who carries the child in her womb and in her arms. When she departs, the void she leaves cannot easily be filled. To recall her may bring sadness, for the love of a mother is irreplaceable. It is a sorrow born not of bitterness but of longing, a grief that honors her importance. Many across ages have spoken of this. The warrior Alexander the Great, after conquering vast empires, was said to have wept when his mother Olympias died, for all the world could not fill the absence of her presence. So too Nagarjuna reveals that the memory of his mother stirs a sadness that is sacred, a testament to how deeply she was loved.

The father, however, often represents strength, guidance, and the shaping hand that prepares the child for the world. To remember him may bring a smile, for fathers leave behind not only lessons but stories—moments of laughter, gestures of encouragement, and the warmth of protection. To smile at such remembrance is to celebrate the gift of life that was lived with him. In this, there is no denial of grief, but rather the recognition that joy has not been extinguished by loss. The memory of the father becomes a lamp, one that glows whenever the heart grows dark.

This truth is reflected in history’s pages as well. Consider Marcus Aurelius, the stoic emperor of Rome, who often wrote in his Meditations about the lessons of his teachers and kin. He recalled some with sorrow, acknowledging their absence, but he remembered others with gratitude, smiling at the virtues they instilled. He carried their wisdom like armor into the trials of empire. In this we see the same truth that Nagarjuna speaks: remembrance is not uniform; each life leaves its own fragrance, its own echo, either of sadness or of joy.

What, then, is the lesson for those who hear these words? It is that memory is a sacred inheritance. Some memories will bring tears, and these tears are not weakness but devotion. Other memories will bring smiles, and these smiles are not frivolity but strength. We must accept both, for to deny sadness is to dishonor love, and to reject joy is to refuse the gift of presence that once was. To live wisely is to carry both tears and smiles as offerings of gratitude to those who shaped us.

And there is also this teaching: strive, in your own life, to be remembered with smiles. Live so that when those who love you recall your presence, their hearts are lifted rather than weighed down. Be like the father in Nagarjuna’s words—leave behind stories of encouragement, laughter in the face of hardship, and moments of light that survive even after you are gone.

Therefore, let each of us honor those who came before with balance. Weep for what was lost, but smile for what was given. Remember your mother’s sacrifice with reverence, your father’s strength with joy. And in so doing, weave your own life into a legacy worthy of remembrance. For when your time comes, may your children and companions say of you: “When I remember, it makes me smile.” Such is the highest tribute, and such is the eternal lesson hidden within Nagarjuna’s simple, powerful words.