For the first time in my life, in this year’s general elections in India, I can’t vote. This is because you have to be present in person and there is no provision (or very limited) for the absentee ballot.

I have always voted, not because I believed it was my duty, but because my father did. It didn’t matter if I had to miss college, take days off work, or have an important appointment, as far as he was concerned, there was nothing more important than voting. And I was going to do it, no matter what. He always made sure of it.

Don’t vote, can’t complain about what you get.

Over two decades ago, when I was three years old, my father stood up against communal rioters in Delhi, putting his own life at risk to save a Sikh friend who was a target of this violence. It is widely believed that a certain political party incited the massacre of over 3,000 people in these anti-Sikh riots.

Ten years later, my aunt got caught in the Bombay riots, and was almost killed. More politics, another 1,000 dead.

Growing up, we would witness the long and often bitter political arguments that would regularly take place between my father and my aunt. My cousins and I typically rolled our eyes in a “here they go again” fashion. Looking back, I realize how strongly their experiences influenced their politics, and I also see how they’re the only two people in my entire extended family who care so deeply about it. How they’re the only ones glued to the television for days every time new violence breaks out. How they actually listen to speeches made by politicians as everyone else is tuning out.

My father never spoke of the incident (my grandmother told us about it), and my aunt would cry every time the Bombay riots were mentioned. But they were both passionate about politics, even if always annoyed that they essentially canceled out each other’s vote. I never could figure out which of them was right and which of them was wrong.

Now I know they were both right. Voting in India has always been an unpleasant experience– you know, every minute of the process, that you’re voting for the lesser evil. I have always felt uncomfortable about giving my support to any party, because they’re all responsible, directly or indirectly, for mass murders. And what is a vote if not a reward for this injustice?

I remember how baffled I was at my usually open-minded father’s reaction– of anger– when I told him for the first time that I hadn’t voted for his preferred party. I understand now the betrayal he may have felt. Since that initial resentment, my father and I have become much closer. Politics is something we both care very deeply about, and we discuss and debate issues at length, usually without any negativity. My aunt has left the country, and now I’m the one who cancels out my father’s vote.

But this year, as distressed as I am at not being able to do so (like father, like daughter), I’m also strangely relieved. I do not, for the first time in ten years, have to tally the wrongs of one party with the wrongs of another. I do not have to watch another speech by another politician, know he or she is lying, and still think, “I’m voting for this person.” I do not have to choose the lesser evil.

I’m forced, by circumstance, to not choose at all. And I’m okay with that.