THE END OF AN ERA

The days run away, says my father’s aunt when I visit her this December. She was born in 1936, and indeed for her, time has flown. She reminisces and advises and tells me how higher studies have ceased to count unless you went abroad to do so. Maybe we can write a theory of economic development based on her experiences as an individual – the trends of what was considered a sign of prosperity. I can boast of only a quarter of her age, being born at the turn of the millennium.

The slow trickling of adulthood started before I recognized it and has completely taken over. Oh, but it feels like yesterday I was 16. And tomorrow I’ll be 24. The last eight years have transgressed various tier-1 cities in India and a brief stint abroad. I can smell the ubiquitous Taaza Thindi of Bengaluru and the Kannada slang that fills the streets. You can survive Bengaluru without knowing Kannada, but you will not feel like a Bangalorean. The techie rush of Hyderabad’s Mindspace, the hip and rich roads of Jubilee Hills, and the waft of flavors from Karachi bakery. The lush leaves of my grandmother’s garden plant in rural Mangalore, days replete with a surprisingly disciplined timetable of meals for such a languid village. There is the perfectly manicured skyline of Singapore, with its pockets of local communities who share snacks and card games each evening. Not to mention the pandemic that pushed me back home, apart from the usual homesickness. I can’t claim to have enjoyed Kochi as much as I did my parents’ conscientiousness to applying sanitizer on everything. They might have bathed me and my sister in Lizol if they could.

Do I enjoy it? Not really. I might be too young to call childhood ‘those old days,’ but I am reckless enough to appreciate the absolute lack of responsibility that came with being a child. I was honestly a carefree one – not a child full of worries and caution like my younger version. It sometimes feels unearthly to notice that one New Years’ Day after another came and went, and two decades of education passed. Maybe that is why I felt the urge to write this all down. As of 2023, the purely academic block of my life would come to an end. As a child (and an adult) who enjoys buying fountain pens and writing on crisp new notebooks, sitting in classrooms, having the teacher do all the thinking and talking, and seeing the tangible presentations of appreciation called marks cards, this is a transition I am not too fond of. My mind can accept my lack of control here, but my heart just doesn’t want to move on. That is the case, isn’t it? At least until you have physically moved to the next location. In every one of those city shifts I experienced in the last decade, this apprehension accompanied me until the flight took off.

“Live in the present” shouts every motivational piece; even the children’s flick Kung Fu Panda says so. But it is far too easy to dwell on what went wrong in the past and what good fortune awaits me in the future. Vice versa, if you please. It’s not too bad to reminisce; the past gives you an anchor to see how far you have come. I had written diary entries planning out my entire life until 2024, back in 2014 – including an MBA degree to IIMA. Talk about big dreams. Of course, I learned much more in 7 years – companionship, independence, recklessness, consequences, moderation, insecurity, and confidence. This string of words can explain anybody’s college experience and are not unique to me. The feeling that is mine to treasure was when I walked into IIM Ahmedabad’s old campus and felt a sense of unreality – that 14-year-old was not one to give up.

What’s more, celebrating NYE on campus while the author of the very book which instilled my faith in being able to crack IIMA walking around campus for a reunion. When I walked into Marina Bay Financial Centre during a family vacation in 2016, wondering who worked in these glass skyscrapers to have a desk waiting for me there in 2023. This doesn’t make me feel as proud as it makes me feel nervous. What if I had planned on becoming a doctor, a pilot, or a sportsperson? Would I have achieved any of it? Or was it decided already that this is where I’d be today, and that dream in my little diary was just backward induction? It sounds a bit prophetic and silly, but I refuse to believe what happens to us is just a function of effort and ability. Luck of having a support system, luck of having the health, physical and mental, to be able to take each step forward towards your dreams. Luck of not being in a country where drones might attack anytime. I am lucky if nothing else.

And so, here we are in 2023. The last year has been a rebound for the world, with every event and engagement becoming “offline” again. I have checked some things on my list from 2014 and some things I didn’t put on the list. There was heartbreak and gut-wrenching honesty; there was extravagance and tranquility. There were vistas from Sabarmati to Jama Masjid, from Kochi beaches and East Coast Road. There were delectable meals of Gujarati Thalis to Thai Rice platters; there were surprise quizzes and countless presentations. There were Garba nights and a portfolio of Decibel music events, with a lot of backstage yelling (mostly from me). I finally made peace with how to spend time alone (significant for a talkative person), ready to face a solo, long-term shift out of my motherland. With the last couple of months of this phase of my lifetime left, I have some thoughts to process and come to terms with. “Become a freelancer, Aishwarya!” said my English teacher after reading my 15-mark essays during 12th standard. I agree with her; why not usher more people to process my rambling?

Welcome to my blog. There is not much fact here, mostly personal opinions and pointless detours. If you want to listen to a friend who can talk endlessly, then stay on for a while :)