Not because I believe my generation is perfect. We are not. Like every generation before us, we carry contradictions, blind spots and flaws of our own. But I grew increasingly frustrated by how easily we were reduced to stereotypes rather than understood as a product of the world we inherited.

I wrote about our minds in Now trending: Vulnerability, about a generation raised in an era of information overload, expected to process endless crises while somehow remaining unaffected by them. I wrote about the way we work in Work Hard, Rest Harder, about being called lazy by those who benefited from an economy where effort was more reliably rewarded, while we entered a world of unstable jobs, rising costs and uncertain futures. I wrote about our social lives in Generational Apathy, about how friendships, communities and movements were dismissed as “chronically online” simply because they existed through screens.

Again and again, the conversation about Gen Z seemed to begin and end with what was supposedly wrong with us. Then came the 2026 Jantar Mantar Protests.

For seven weeks, protests had been building there, born out of fury over leaked exam papers and a testing system nobody believed in anymore. And everything people had mocked this generation for turned out to be exactly what carried it.

The generation accused of having no attention span stayed on the streets for seven weeks. The generation mocked for documenting everything turned its phones into one of the largest public archives of the movement, every video a piece of testimony, every reel a refusal to let memory be edited after the fact. The generation accused of feeling too much cried over strangers it had never met. The generation dismissed as politically apathetic somehow managed to force politics to pay attention. And the generation repeatedly described as unserious discovered that humour could become one of the most serious political tools it possessed.

During the protests, the detractors became more interested in policing how Gen Z protests than in understanding why they were protesting. We debated who organised it, who funded it, which politician showed up, what slogans were shouted, what someone wore, whether somebody smiled for a camera. Anything, except the question that brought thousands of students to the streets in the first place.

And then came the same tired line: it’s political. As if that’s a scandal instead of a description. Nothing about a protest is apolitical. Protest is a political act, that’s the entire definition of it, and pretending otherwise is either naive or dishonest. Whether there’s an affiliation worth being suspicious of is a separate question from whether the demand being raised is fair, and conflating the two is just a way to avoid answering the one that actually matters. For the sake of argument, say the suspicion is real. Fine. Is the question fair or not? That’s it. That’s the only thing worth arguing about. And since when, exactly, did we need permission to protest? What an irony. I would still love to meet the mythical “pure protest”, the one where nobody brings a camera, no party tries to attach itself, and everyone goes home after respectfully disagreeing. It sounds lovely. It also has the same relationship with reality as unicorns.

One of the strangest reactions to the protests wasn’t outrage at the lathis. It was irritating that, in between the slogans and the anger, young people were actually having fun.

Because they were. Dance-offs were breaking out between chants. Some placards were laugh-out-loud funny before they were anything else, punchlines that turned out to be arguments if you looked twice. There were memes made out of our politicians. There were people leading songs like it was a concert. Nobody had seen resistance built quite like this, with the openness of a festival and the discipline of a movement, at the same time. It stopped being something you watched from a distance and became something you wanted inside of.

For some reason, a lot of people read all of that as proof the protest wasn’t serious. I think it’s the opposite. I think it’s the whole point. A movement that only knows how to grieve burns out in a week. A movement that knows how to laugh in the same breath it screams can go on for seven.

That’s not incidental to what happened at Jantar Mantar. It might be the actual engine of it.

Here’s my read on why the fun bothered people this much: exhaustion is politically convenient. Every system that benefits from things staying the same also benefits, structurally, from resistance feeling lonely and miserable, whether or not anyone intended it that way. Despair doesn’t need a conspiracy behind it to be useful to whoever’s already in charge; it just needs to make people go home tired enough not to come back. Joy interrupts that math. It turns a protest into something people want to return to, which is a much harder thing to wait out than something people are merely enduring. Anger starts a movement. Joy is what gets people to show up on day forty the same way they showed up on day one.

Every generation has a political moment that shapes how it understands its country. This might be ours. I call it a moment, not a movement, not because it mattered any less, but because we’ve become too quick to measure significance only by what lasts. Not everyone who showed up arrived meaning to make history. These Jantar Mantar protests became one of those moments anyway, a generation finding itself there when history demanded a response, and revealing something that can’t be unseen: a generation discovering its own voice, and a country being forced to listen. If it’s a movement, only time will tell.

And it didn’t stay at Jantar Mantar. It moved into the one place this generation actually lives, the feed. The same feeds we have been mocked for losing hours to are filled with this instead of everything else. For days, you couldn’t open your phone without the protest finding you, a chant halfway through, a placard mid-laugh, someone’s voice cracking mid-sentence, reposted and reposted until it stopped being any one person’s footage and started being the timeline itself. That’s its own kind of archive, not curated by a newsroom, not filtered through an institution, but built collectively, in real time, by thousands of people who each decided their fifteen seconds mattered enough to post. It turned a protest into a cultural moment simply by being inescapable in the exact space where this generation spends most of the time it has. You didn’t need to be at Jantar Mantar to be inside it. You just needed to open your phone.

The footage from the Jantar Mantar protests of 20 July 2026 will stay with people for years. Not simply because of what happened, but because of who we watched it happen to: young people who came to peacefully raise their voices, ask questions, and exercise the very democratic rights they had spent years being taught they had.

Certain lines surfaced again and again across that footage, shouted, chanted, repeated back in reels until they stopped sounding like any one person’s words and started sounding like the whole crowd’s:

“What did we ask for to deserve this?”

What an extraordinary question for a democracy to make its own children ask.

Behind that question was disbelief, the confusion of a generation that had been taught citizens have rights, that questions strengthen democracy, that institutions exist to serve the people, only to discover that exercising those rights could come with consequences they never imagined.

“Why are you hitting us with lathis? Why are you treating us like criminals?”

“Aren’t we your children too?”

Those words are hard to forget because they weren’t the voices of people rejecting democracy. They were the voices of people reaching out to it, young citizens standing before the very institutions they had been taught to trust. But what was meant to silence them revealed something else. What they thought would break the movement’s spirit only strengthened its resolve.

None of this happened because of one generation acting alone, and it would be its own kind of dishonesty to pretend otherwise. People in their fifties, sixties, seventies started showing up too, sitting down next to students decades younger and treating the fight as their own. A movement that stays young and isolated is easy to wait out. A movement that pulls in people who have already lived through a few political moments, and still think this one is worth their time, is much harder to ignore.

The same generation accused of being too distracted to care had done what many believed impossible. It stayed. It documented. It organised. It refused to disappear. And eventually, sustained public pressure forced accountability at the highest political level.

The Education Minister resigned.

Today, Baahubali: The Torchbearer releases on Netflix.

Yesterday, the team presented Eternal War at Annecy for the first time, sharing a work-in-progress with the world.

One story reaching its epilogue. Another is taking its first bow. Somewhere between the two, I started seeing the journey differently.

The first project I worked on was Baahubali: The Torchbearer. Looking back now, I realise it was a singular introduction to Arka and to the kind of storytelling culture I was stepping into.

I had joined Arka just two weeks before the documentary began filming its interviews. By sheer coincidence, one of my earliest days there involved walking onto a set where Rajamouli sir was being interviewed.

I remember wondering, Am I really supposed to be here already?

The interviews stretched across the next few months. At first, I mostly listened. Gradually, I became more involved, from helping frame questions, assisting with interviews, and contributing to conversations that would shape the documentary.

Of course, the starstruck feeling never really disappeared. I still catch myself having moments where I need to remember that staring is generally considered impolite.

But time has a funny way of editing memory. The names, the novelty, the disbelief of finding myself in those rooms are all still there. They just no longer occupy the centre of the story.

The stories do.

When something becomes as culturally significant as Baahubali, it begins to feel inevitable in hindsight. We remember the phenomenon, the records, the scale. The rough edges get edited out. What remains is the monument.

But monuments are strange things.

They hide the fact that they were once construction sites.

Almost every conversation eventually arrived at the same place: uncertainty.

With every interview, Baahubali became a little less mythical. The monument slowly gave way to the construction site.

While those interviews continued, my everyday life became increasingly occupied by another world entirely: Eternal War.

There’s something quite remarkable about the way timelines have overlapped at Arka for me. I began my journey immersed in the story of something whose place in cinema had already been secured. A story whose ending the world already knew. Almost exactly a year later, my days were filled with conversations about a story the world hadn’t met yet.

The timing still feels strangely poetic.

Today, Baahubali: The Torchbearer releases on Netflix.

Yesterday, the team presented Eternal War at the Annecy International Animation Film Festival, sharing a work-in-progress with the world for the first time.

I wasn’t there at the festival, but I had the privilege of spending the past few months helping prepare for that moment.

From creating the application deck that got us selected for the Work in Progress panel, to coordinating with the festival, sitting through countless discussions about how we wanted to introduce the film, and finally creating the presentation shown on stage in Annecy, I got to witness just how much thought goes into presenting years of work in a single hour. The presentation itself was an exercise in bringing together the work of so many incredible people into one cohesive story.

Watching the team take that stage and seeing how warmly it was received filled me with a sense of pride. Mostly, though, I felt grateful to have been trusted with even a small part of that journey.

I began my time at Arka helping tell the story of a film that had already changed Indian cinema. Almost exactly a year later, I was helping another story take its first public step.

One project asked people to remember. The other asked them to imagine.

Somewhere between those two moments sits my first screen credit. Under the Direction Department, no less. There is also a brief moment where I appear on screen. I won’t tell you where. Partly because it’s more fun that way. The first time I noticed the shot, I laughed out loud because it was quite ridiculous and embarrassing.

I am standing outside a room during the reunion gathering. Someone laughs inside, and I instinctively look in. That’s it. Just a few seconds that somehow captured my first year better than I ever could. Standing close enough to hear stories that had shaped an industry. Curious enough to look in.

Grateful enough simply to be there.

Near the end of the documentary, Rajamouli sir quotes a line from the film’s final score that has stayed with me ever since:

“When God stands beside human determination, and the world watches in awe, if one’s own unwavering belief becomes their weapon and they continue to fight, even destiny itself will bow.”

I found myself returning to that line more than once this week. Not just because of the words themselves, but because of what comes after them. As the music plays, the documentary shifts its focus to the countless people behind Baahubali whose work made those words possible.

The documentary reminds us of everything that disappears from the final product. The weeks spent figuring things out one problem at a time. Production challenges that seemed impossible until someone found a way through. Decisions made without the certainty of knowing they were right. Risks taken because the story deserved them. It's easy to mistake the finished film for inevitability, but what built it was the conviction to keep going long before anyone knew how it would turn out.

Nobody spoke about Baahubali as though greatness had simply happened to them. They spoke about choices. About responsibility. About standards, they refused to compromise on, even when those standards made the work harder. Every department seemed to carry the same conviction that details mattered because audiences would eventually feel the difference, even if they never knew where it came from. Even the person quietly recording years of behind-the-scenes footage that would one day become this documentary approached the work with the same care. They believed it was worth preserving.

From the outside, it’s easy to imagine that legendary films are built on singular moments of inspiration. Sitting in those rooms, they looked more like thousands of conversations. Whether a scene was stronger with music or with the courage to let silence do the work, a silence that would leave theatres holding their breath. A prop remade because it didn’t feel lived in, one that audiences would later recreate. A line rewritten because it still wasn’t true enough, a line that would go on to be quoted for years. A pause in a performance discussed as carefully as the dialogue itself, a pause that would become just as memorable as the words around it. The scale was extraordinary. The attention was microscopic.

Maybe that’s what the first credits really acknowledge. Not that we have arrived. But that we have inherited.

I am not even twenty-two yet, and somehow, within a single year, I found myself helping document one of Indian cinema's most influential stories, watching another begin its own journey, receiving my first screen credit, and spending my days fortunate enough to orbit around people who have spent decades shaping Indian cinema.

I have inherited stories, standards, and most importantly, people who cared enough to leave the work better than they found it.

Every first credit rests on countless others.

Credit, where it’s due.

Ever since I was about twelve years old, I said it out loud: “I want to be a sports journalist. A cricket writer. A presenter.”

Until then, I had interests, not identities. Cricket changed that. It gave me something solid to hold on to, a language for ambition. I did not just watch cricket, I absorbed it. I watched panels and press conferences not just as a fan, but as someone imagining herself on the other side of the table, asking the questions, shaping the conversation. Somewhere along the way, I stopped saying I like cricket and started being known as the cricket girl.

For a long time, that identity felt comforting. People remembered it. They repeated it back to me. They built their idea of me around it. And I leaned into it because it felt good to be legible, to be known, to have a clean, confident answer when someone asked who I was or what I wanted to do. I tried to honour that dream seriously. I did what you are supposed to do when you fall in love with a field young. I stayed loyal to it. I built proof around it. I let it define me. This weight grows heavier when that dream has been spoken aloud, remembered by others, and invested in by people who care about you and are rooting for a very specific version of your future.

I still smile at that tidy story we all crave: girl falls for cricket young, rides it to the dream life. It would’ve been beautiful.

That clarity felt especially tangible before COVID, when cricket was a defining part of my identity; I dreamt up every possible scenario of interviewing Rohit Sharma. It changed slightly when I came to college; most did not know the intensity with which I had loved cricket, or how deeply it had shaped me. And yet, my relationship with cricket had not disappeared.

My love for it became more internal because I had discovered so many other things that sparked the same intensity. Writing. Media. Politics. Storytelling. Pop Culture. Social. Journalism. Content I was still a fan girl, just no longer devoted to one singular object. My devotion redistributed itself. And slowly, I realised that I owed all of these discoveries to cricket itself. It taught me how meaningful it is to follow a passion fully, to stay with it long enough for it to open doors you did not know existed, and to let it branch into new paths without fear.

And yet, I could feel people watching. Waiting. Almost hoping I would circle back to cricket as I took up internships that had nothing to do with it. I didn’t realise how deeply that expectation sat with me, perhaps because internships are, by nature, temporary. They felt like detours, not departures, which made everyone assume I would eventually return.

It was in that in-between space, stuck between who I had been and who I could become, that the opportunity at Arka Mediaworks appeared. I did not even know this kind of role existed, let alone that it was something I could do or enjoy. I did not grow up imagining myself in this role. I did not rehearse it in my head the way I once rehearsed cricket panels and bylines. It arrived simply as an opportunity, and I stepped into it without the weight of destiny attached.

That’s when the gentle prods started rolling in, even stronger: “What about your true calling, cricket? Is Arka just a side step?

Beneath those questions was the suggestion that what I was doing could not be the whole story. That this phase was temporary by default. That my present needed to be explained in relation to a past dream in order to be taken seriously.

There is something disorienting about having your current life framed as a pause. About being told that the thing you wake up for every day is meaningful only in its proximity to something else.

What often gets lost in this conversation is that my relationship with cricket was never just about cricket. What struck me most was that stepping into Arka was that it felt like an extension of everything I had loved about cricket. Cricket had given me a model for curiosity, for attention, for deep engagement with a story and with people. Arka offered me the same thrill in a new form: a space to grow, to learn, to be part of a story, and to share that story with others. That had always been what I had wanted to do in cricket too: immerse myself in the narrative, understand its layers, and communicate it to the world.

It allowed me to take everything cricket had taught me—attention to detail, love for storytelling, patience for complex processes, curiosity for human experience—and channel it in a new direction.

Still everytime someone reminds me of the cricket girl I once was, there is a tiny ache, a sense of betrayal toward that past self who dared to dream boldly. It is a feeling I recognise, though I also recognise that it is unnecessary. It makes me pause long enough to wonder whether I have drifted away from something essential, whether I have been disloyal to the version of myself who once named her desire so clearly. Did I abandon my truer self?

We often mistake consistency for integrity. We tell ourselves that staying the same is proof of sincerity, and that deviation must mean confusion, compromise, or loss of direction. People are not singular projects. We gather layers. Interests deepen, collide, resurface in different forms. These are not competing selves. They are connected ones. I am sure I could be doing many different things, just as I am sure that many of us could. But we are always living one version of ourselves at a time. That does not mean the rest of us have disappeared.

The first dream is treated as the truest one, when in reality, it was simply the first doorway we were brave enough to walk through. A dream can be sincere without being singular, and a past version of me can be meaningful without needing to define every version that follows.

Maybe I will return to cricket someday. Maybe I will not. Maybe it will exist in my life differently, not as a profession, but as love, memory, or context. Maybe this role is much deeper than I anticipate. Or maybe it will lead me somewhere I cannot yet imagine. I do not know. And I am learning to treat that uncertainty not as a failure, but as evidence that I am still alive to possibility.

What I do know is this. My present is not a compensation for my past dream. It is an expansion of who I am allowed to be. My twelve-year-old self did not know everything. She only knew what lit her up then. And she did her job beautifully. She gave me confidence, direction, and the courage to name a desire without shame. Honouring her does not mean freezing myself in time. It means trusting that the same openness that once led me to cricket is now leading me somewhere else.

We can never know what to want, because, living only one life, we can neither compare it with our previous lives nor perfect it in our lives to come.

- The Unbearable Lightness of Being by Milan Kundera

P.S. The title is inspired by Virat Kohli’s shot against Pakistan at the MCG only because of his “Open Stance “ to get it over the rope.

At the time, none of it felt orderly. It felt like fragments: thoughts written quickly, moments captured before they slipped away, questions asked without answers waiting at the end. Only now, at the close of the year, does it begin to look like a story.

And to anchor my reflections this year, I found resonance in a song, Taylor Swift’s Manuscript from one of my favourite albums from her, The Tortured Poets Department.

Before I dive in, let me know which of my articles was your favourite!

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I wrote Nani ka Ghar at the start of the year, standing at the edge of a transition I didn’t fully understand. The return to Nani’s house, the rituals, the quiet streets of Dehradun, and the village with my grandparents, all these moments came together like a mosaic of memory and reflection.

“Each day seemed to drag endlessly, accompanied by the persistent hum of self-doubt…..And yet, I kept moving forward, because the world doesn’t stop, and I had to begrudgingly move ahead.”

Looking back now, Nani ka Ghar holds a version of myself I can only faintly remember, mostly through this newsletter, scared, uncertain, yearning for solidity. Grief, memory, small joys, and fleeting insights passed by, scene by scene, like a show of my life unfolding.

I wrote Inheritance of Empty Benches as college was ending. Writing about the spaces, the routines, the memories, the things I knew intimately, and writing college as an obituary of spaces.

“Nothing is physically ending.
The buildings will remain. The doors will stay open.
But the emotional architecture is crumbling.”

Writing about it allowed me to hold onto those experiences without trying to stop them from slipping away. It was a way to make sense of endings I couldn’t control, to notice the subtle ways memory and place shape who we are, and to carry forward the pieces of college that mattered most.

Unqualified and Uncertain was written in that in-between space, after college ended but before anything concrete had begun. It was the period where I had no scaffolding, no structure, no plan, no guide. Just a blank page, a dozen tabs open, and a quiet, creeping fear.

“And now? Now it’s just me. A dozen tabs open. Job portals. A blank document. And a quiet, creeping uncertainty.”
“So here I am: standing at the edge of the map, blinking cursor hovering over a hundred unopened tabs. No real quest. No guide. Just a screen full of possibilities and a vague sense of urgency.”

Looking back, writing this piece didn’t give me answers. But it did offer a pause, a chance to inhabit the uncertainty without panicking, to acknowledge that fear itself was part of the structure I needed to build. The lyric captures the sentiment: sometimes, moving forward requires retracing steps, piecing together the lines we had blurred in the moment.

In Unqualified, Uncertain, and Somehow Here, the sequel to my previous article, I was finally on the floor, expected to move with everyone else. The people around me knew their cues, like where to stand, when to speak, and how to keep pace. I watched, adjusted, and followed.

I still felt unqualified. Still unsure. But I wasn’t invisible. I had a place to return to each day, work waiting for me, and a reason to stay alert.

“I have worked, yes. But I have also been held up. The dots I connected weren’t floating in empty space. They were placed within reach.”

Much of this came down to timing, when the doors opened, hands extended, chances offered before I even knew how to ask. The marks were already there. All I had to do was notice them and step where I was meant to stand.

The rhythm of early adulthood right after college has felt like a slow dance, tentative, unchoreographed, yet full of unexpected sparks of recognition and wins. In The New Punk Rock Is Becoming Known (Again), I tried to put words to that feeling: the awkwardness of being almost 21, of stepping into rooms where I didn’t yet know how to be seen, and of learning to trust that my voice could matter.

“I am almost 21, technically an adult, but I often feel younger than I ever have.”

Visarjan might be my favourite, and in hindsight, I see why. The festival, the rain, the music, the rhythm of it all, it mirrored my own cycles: endings folding into beginnings.

“It always rains when the idol arrives, and when it leaves…yet, when it returns the next year, we recognise it as our own, familiar and unchanged in essence, much like the versions of ourselves that grow, shift, and evolve over time.”

The tears weren’t just about sadness or letting go; they were relief. Relief that growth doesn’t erase the past, that leaving doesn’t mean losing, that endings aren’t failures but part of a rhythm that carries us forward. Life, like the festival, has its own score, inevitable, comforting, sometimes surprising. And when you finally sync with it, it just feels…right.

First, Orbit captured the first time I could look back and see the purpose in everything I had felt and done. Not because I had figured everything out, but because the fear, the hesitation, and the small, slow steps were part of learning to move forward. Each difficult moment, each night of uncertainty, was a piece of the process.

“Still, here’s what I know: the version of me that walked in here six months ago had a different kind of uncertainty. The uncertainty of standing outside a door, wondering if I could open it. Now the uncertainty is different. It’s the uncertainty of being inside, of knowing the door is closed behind me, of being committed to figuring this out, whether I’m ready or not.”

The agony, the doubt, the sleepless nights, they were all part of the process. And at last, I could see why each step mattered.

This is where I find myself now, at the close of this chapter. The newsletters, like a manuscript, are a record of the year, a document of my thoughts, fears, triumphs, and growth. They’re a souvenir from the experience of moving through a pivotal year of my life. And while I wrote them, reflected in them, and revisited them, the story has taken on a life of its own. It is bigger than the small, anxious self who began the year, and it belongs as much to the readers who followed along as it does to me.

Looking back, 2025 felt like fragments, fragments that were chaotic and urgent in the moment. But connecting the dots now, I see a coherent narrative. Writing these newsletters allowed me to trace the trajectory of my inner life as carefully as any external milestone, giving me clarity in retrospect that was almost impossible to feel while living it.

The manuscript remains. The story continues. And I carry it forward with me, a scaffold for future uncertainty, a record of what it looked like to step into the adult world. That was 2025 for me. A chapter closed with understanding, reflection, and a sense of gratitude for the manuscript I can now see in its entirety.

Whenever I say I am working at Arka Mediaworks, the makers of Baahubali, people get this look. curiosity mixed with expectation, like I am about to announce I have taken over the franchise or something. And the next question is always, “Oh wow, so what do you do there?” There is no escape from it.

Even if they don’t say it, it sits right there on their faces. And I swear, every time someone asks me that, my first reaction is to laugh. A tiny defensive laugh, the kind you give when you are buying time to rearrange your words. Then comes my terrible explanation that never quite captures anything, because truthfully, I am still figuring it out myself.

The world is big, and people assume that if you are attached to something big, you must be big too, big achievements, big responsibilities, big answers. But what if that’s not what you are? What if you had to take time to learn the rhythm? Nobody prepares you for how awkward it can feel to enjoy something professionally and still not fully know how to articulate your place in it.

Baahubali wasn’t a monumental film for me personally when it first released in 2015 (Note: I was a 10-year-old, forgive me). I wasn’t in those massive opening-day crowds. I wasn’t glued to fan theories. But even from a distance, I felt its cultural tremor. That “Why did Kattappa kill Baahubali?” question seeped into every possible space. You couldn’t escape its echo. So, walking into Arka for the first time, I was faintly aware that I was entering the orbit of a phenomenon. Something that had already shaped how India imagines storytelling. It’s hard not to feel small in the face of something that large.

But nothing made the scale feel real like the day I watched an interview shoot with Rajamouli sir, Prabhas, and Rana days before the release and watching them in one frame felt like seeing lightning trapped in a bottle. However, my favourite moment was when Rana Daggubati turned toward me and casually pointed out that we were wearing matching outfits. “We are twinning,” he said, grinning, and I laughed, half-dying inside. That’s the thing about working here: reality and mythology keep bumping shoulders in the hallway. You exist in this strange space where the enormous is casual.

So, there was no way of getting into it other than getting into it. There’s no amount of preparation that would have helped. There’s no manual for this. And at first, everything feels urgent and blurry. Emails full of references you don’t understand. Meetings where everyone seems to be speaking a language you haven’t learned yet. You sit there nodding, trying to stitch together context from scattered clues. People would ask me things, and I would panic because I didn’t know if I was supposed to know the answer by now or if it was okay to admit I was still lost. For weeks, I wasn’t sure whether I was slow or whether the world was simply too fast.

This first stretch was just overwhelming, not in a bad way. Just in the way where every single day you realise how much you don’t know, and you can’t do anything about it except keep showing up and absorbing. You watch the patterns. You read the old interviews. You try to understand the history. You listen in conversations without speaking. You realise that ten years of legacy doesn’t download into your brain overnight. There were stories I hadn’t heard, decisions I didn’t understand the reasoning behind, and cultural moments that had shifted things in ways I was only learning about.

Slowly, without noticing when it happened, the overwhelming became normal. The things that confused me on day one started making sense by month three. The conversations that felt impenetrable became followable. I could anticipate what someone was going to say before they said it. I could add something without it feeling completely out of place. I picked up Reddit because it was new territory for everyone, which made it feel safe for me to step into as the new person. It became my closest bridge to the fans while I was still learning the inside of this world. It was the first place where I really saw how fans think. They remember things I hadn’t even heard of yet. They argue about details I didn’t know were important. They spot connections instantly, and they don’t hold back when they are excited or confused or annoyed. Honestly, it became my unofficial crash course.

And slowly, tiny moments began to feel like progress, suggesting a word change in a caption, offering an opinion, hearing someone echo a thought I had kept to myself. These were small wins, but they mattered to me because they signalled I was thinking in the right direction.

However, coming back to my confessions, beneath all the anxiety and self-doubt, what I have been learning to practice is something I can only describe as delayed gratification. It is the patience to inhabit the early, unremarkable days, to absorb the textures, rhythms, and contradictions of a space without rushing to leave your mark, trusting that meaning and understanding will unfold gradually, often in ways you cannot yet see or measure. It is learning to stay with the discomfort of not knowing, of not yet having a polished answer, of not yet being the person you hope to be within a universe so vast it can feel at times both luminous and indifferent.

It is noticeable that sometimes the most important work happens in observation, in listening, in connecting dots that only reveal their significance after months or years have passed. So every month on the 21st, I mark it off. It means I watched the celebration of ten years of Baahubali. It means I was there when The Epic dropped at the end of October. It means I’m part of Eternal War now. These are real things that mattered before I existed and will matter long after I am gone. And it only makes sense in hindsight.

Still, here’s what I know: the version of me that walked in here six months ago had a different kind of uncertainty. The uncertainty of standing outside a door, wondering if I could open it. Now the uncertainty is different. It’s the uncertainty of being inside, of knowing the door is closed behind me, of being committed to figuring this out, whether I’m ready or not.

Yes, when people ask me what I do, I still laugh a little. That instinct hasn’t changed. However, I won’t give a perfect, neatly packaged answer, and honestly, giving one would feel like the antithesis of this newsletter. You can’t talk about not figuring it out and then pretend you have figured it out.

So the closest I can offer right now is this: I am part of the team working to help more people discover and connect with the world of Baahubali, especially as we enter this new chapter with Eternal War, the next animated film from the Baahubali Franchise.

It’s broad, a little vague, and not tied up like a formal JD, which feels right for where I am, too. Six months in, the uncertainty hasn’t gone; it has evolved. I began at the edge of the orbit, feeling the warmth from a distance. Now I am closer, circling it, reflecting the light it shines on me. It’s the kind of growth that feels meaningful.

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For me, those memories live in the events of my society. Spaces that once held large groups of children, all of us dressed in the “colour of the day,” waiting for prashad during Ganesh Chaturthi. Back then, the world seemed small enough to fit inside our community. We didn’t think beyond its walls; our universe was made of games around the towering buildings, the throb of dhols echoing in our chests, and the sweetness of prasadam pressed into our palms.

Now, the world feels impossibly vast with new cities, universities, jobs, and lives waiting outside Hyderabad. And with that, our little group has shrunk. Some days, I miss the larger crowd and how I used to be able to recognise most of the faces. The noise, the chaos, the uncontainable energy of all of us together. I find myself reminiscing, and it makes the festival feel lonelier. But other days, I sit with the two friends who remain and feel oddly fulfilled. Grateful, even, that the circle has grown smaller, quieter, but perhaps deeper too.

I remember Visarjan three years ago. That morning, I packed up to leave for my PG. I was the only one from our group still around, and I stood there alone, watching the crowd dance and sing to the beat of the dhol. The idol swayed, the air shook with drums and chants, and I felt both inside it and outside it — already halfway gone. It was as if the festival was bidding me goodbye, pushing me into a new life.

This visarjan felt different. I had just come back from brunch with my college friends, where we talked about our new lives and reminisced about how, just a few months ago, we could meet every day without thinking twice, never realising how easily those days would slip away, never to return. In three short years, they had come to feel like family, their presence woven into my everyday life so tightly that it’s hard to remember a version of myself before them.

And yet, from that warm chaos, I returned home, changed into something more festive, and walked down to the clubhouse for the Mahaprashad. I had moved from the company of friends who know the person I have become to the company of two friends who knew me before I even knew myself, who carry versions of me I sometimes find difficult to recognise, or harder still, to accept. We have grown up together here, our lives running parallel in recent years, yet somehow still crossing paths at this same old place. There were fewer of us now, and the same soft hum of chatter floated through the air as we sat in the corner, found ourselves on the same stairs that always waited.

Halfway through our meal, one of the parents pulled out their phone and started clicking pictures of us. We froze for a second, plates balanced on our laps, bits of rice and dal still clinging to our fingers. Then we burst into laughter at the ridiculousness of it, three twenty-somethings caught mid-bite like children again.

The phone hovered, snapping from angle after angle, and suddenly, we were hyper-aware of ourselves. Unlike when we were younger, when a photo was just a blurry memory on someone’s phone, now each picture carries weight. We tilted our heads, shifted our plates, and exaggerated smiles. Someone joked about “good side, bad side,” and we dissolved into laughter. Growing older has made us careful about how we are captured, but here we were, sweaty, sticky-fingered, eating prashad on stone stairs, immortalised anyway.

And yet, in that moment, I felt comfort too. These were people who had watched us grow up, who still saw us as children, no matter how much we tried to project adulthood. There was something tender in being held in their gaze, as if they were saying: you can grow, you can leave, you can change, but to us you will always be the kids who ran barefoot through these lanes.

Maybe that’s why this festival always feels so heavy with emotion. Visarjan is an act of letting go, of sending something beautiful back into the water, knowing it won’t return the same.

It always rains when the idol arrives, and when it leaves, and every year, without fail, the downpour seems to mark the rhythm of the festival in a way that feels both inevitable and comforting, as if the sky itself remembers what we sometimes forget: that endings and beginnings are never truly separate. The idol will dissolve, its form scattered into the water. Yet, when it returns the next year, we recognise it as our own, familiar and unchanged in essence, much like the versions of ourselves that grow, shift, and evolve over time, yet remain recognizably connected to who we once were.

And the rain that returns every year during this time carries that same quiet reassurance, reminding me that even as people leave, as friends move away, and as life reshapes everything around us, some part of what mattered, the essence, the memory, the feeling of belonging, always finds its way back, transformed yet familiar. Watching it now, I realize that growing up isn’t about clinging tighter to what is leaving or resisting inevitable change, it’s about noticing the patterns that endure, trusting the cycles of leaving and returning, and allowing yourself to be present for both, to see continuity in the dissolving clay, the returning rain, and the friendships, old and new, that quietly remind you of who you were, who you are, and who you are becoming.

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Lately, I have been thinking about what it really means to grow up. Everyone says you change when you leave a place, that you grow, evolve, become more of yourself. But no one quite tells you what that looks like when it’s happening. It doesn’t feel like a transformation. It feels like standing in a familiar room that’s slowly losing its colour, watching moments you once lived in drift just far enough away that you’re no longer sure how to reach them. Three months ago, I was in college. I spent three years there, in classrooms and corridors, in rehearsals and rallies, surrounded by people who knew not just my name but my ways. The strange thing about leaving college is how quickly something that shaped you starts to feel like a memory.

All my life, I have been surrounded by people my age. That’s the quiet luxury of school and college, a built-in community of peers who understand your references without explanation. You don’t have to catch people up on your life before making a joke or sharing an opinion. There’s a collective rhythm. It gives you a sense of belonging without effort.

But now, I find myself in rooms where the people around me have been out of college almost as long as I have been alive. People who don’t flinch when they say things like “ten years ago,” because it actually was ten years ago. The gap isn’t just in age, but in rhythm. In pace. In perspective. It’s not that they are unkind. On the contrary, they’re generous, accomplished, even warm. But they don’t know me. Not really. And I haven’t figured out yet how to be known in this new setting.

I am almost 21, technically an adult, but I often feel younger than I ever have. Not in the romantic, youthful sense of adventure, but in the disoriented sense of not knowing how this new phase works, the awkward kid at the table of adults. Of being the only one in the room who doesn’t get the inside jokes. Or figure out how to ask questions without sounding too lost.

And in the quiet moments, after work, on weekends, in between group chats that have gone silent, I notice the distance. Not just physical, but emotional. The kind of distance that creeps in when lives begin to unfold in different directions. When you are not part of the daily details anymore. You still love your people. They love you back. But there’s a difference between loving someone and living beside them.

No one tells you that once you get the freedom you craved, the independence you spent years waiting for, you will also inherit the silence that comes with it. The stillness of having to seek out connection rather than stumbling into it. Of needing to make plans instead of just showing up. Of realising that effort is no longer optional, it’s the currency of adult relationships.

This isn’t about loneliness, at least not in the conventional sense. I have people I can call. People I care about deeply. But what I miss is the shorthand, the effortless understanding that comes from shared history. The way someone would ask if I have eaten without needing to ask why I skipped lunch. Or how someone would catch the wobble in my voice before I even realised I needed to cry. That kind of knowing takes time. And time, in this new world, feels rationed.

In the absence of that familiarity, I have noticed myself becoming quieter. Not because I have less to say, but because I am learning how to say it in a language that makes sense here. I am relearning the rules of being seen, of what it means to introduce yourself not just by name, but by presence. And I have realised that identity, for all our talk of individuality, is often a mirror. We understand ourselves by how others reflect us. When you are no longer surrounded by the people who knew you “before,” or People who shared any of your lived experiences, it becomes harder to trust your own reflection.

Who am I when no one here has seen the loudness, the leadership, the inside jokes, the unfiltered laughter? When they haven’t watched me speak up in a crowded classroom or stay back after events or write at 2 a.m. because I couldn’t sleep? When they don’t know the version of me that feels most like home?

I hesitate more now. I watch myself wondering, “Was that too much?” “Did that land weird?” “Should I have explained that better?” I edit before I speak. Not because I want to be inauthentic, but because I don’t yet know which parts of me are welcome.

I used to think becoming was a linear process. You grow, you learn, you arrive. But now I wonder if it’s more like a spiral where you circle back to similar questions at new depths. Who am I here? Who am I now? Who do I want to be next?

I am relearning the grammar of closeness. Of trying. Of reaching out even when it feels a little awkward. Of waving at the windows that once opened easily, and knocking gently now when they don’t.

It’s not a crisis. It’s not even despair. It’s just the in-between. The part where things feel uncertain, but not unbearable. And though it asks more of me than I am used to, I meet it willingly because these are my favourite kinds of trials: the ones that ask you to be more human, more open, more willing to begin again.

I suppose that’s the quiet heroism of it all, showing up every day, even when clarity is a luxury.

This quote from a recent favourite movie, Superman (2025), puts it perfectly:

“I am as human as anyone. I love, I get scared. I wake up every morning and despite not knowing what to do, I put one foot in front of the other and I try to make the best choices I can. I screw up all the time, but that is being human and that’s my greatest strength.”

There’s something comforting in knowing that even our heroes are uncertain. That’s the new punk rock. Not to always know, but to keep choosing anyway.

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I wrote two articles a day, edited on the go, balanced it alongside board prep and the mess that is Class 12. Most of what I submitted got published without edits, which felt like a win.

Then, one day, I made a mistake. A small one. I said sorry. I explained. I thought that would be enough. Minutes later, I got a call. It wasn’t a conversation. Just sharp words and raised voices. A lecture I couldn’t hold on to, the kind that leaves you frozen even before it’s over. And then, all of a sudden, I was being let go. The call ended with a line I still remember word for word: “With this kind of attitude, you won’t make it in the real world.”

That sentence stayed with me. It played in my head for months like background noise I couldn’t turn off. I sat on the edge of my bed, still holding my phone, my face hot and my stomach weirdly cold. I didn’t tell anyone. I didn’t know how to. I felt embarrassed, like I had failed not just at the work, but at some unspoken test of character. I started to believe maybe he was right. That I wasn’t ready.

But of course I wasn’t. I was seventeen. Still figuring things out. Not knowing wasn’t a flaw, it was natural. I didn’t need to be told that with anger.

Now, when I think back, I don’t feel grateful for how it happened. But I do see what it taught me. That version of me that was eager, scared, and just starting wasn’t lacking. And starting shouldn’t be punished. She didn’t need praise. She deserved space to learn, space to make a small mistake without it becoming a permanent label.

Since that first internship, I’ve had the chance to work with teams that brought both kindness and rigour, experiences that didn’t just teach, but helped me grow. My time with Trice in 2023 and NDTV in 2024 were especially formative in their own ways, and I have written about both in earlier newsletters.

I have thought about that first experience a lot in the past month, because after a long, uncertain stretch of not knowing what came next, I have found myself working. And yes, in case you haven’t been looped into my parents’ social media platforms or bumped into me recently, this may come as news.

I realise the irony that my last post, just two months ago, was about feeling lost in the real world. And now here I am, showing up again with: um, hi, actually I’m working now.

That last piece caught a lot of attention. Mostly concerned, which I deeply appreciated. The check-ins, the quiet encouragement, the messages from people who said, “I feel this too”, those moments made me feel like I wasn’t alone in that strange, in-between space that follows graduation. That post didn’t offer a resolution. It wasn’t meant to. It was simply me saying, “I don’t know what I’m doing, but I’m still here.” And somehow, just naming that was enough to feel like I had started moving again.

And then, almost without warning, things shifted. A conversation here. A phone call there. A stretch of waiting that didn’t feel like waiting for anything in particular. And then suddenly, I was in.

And now, a month in, I still don’t entirely know how to talk about it. I didn’t want to write a tidy “I got a job!” post. It felt too final, too neat, too not-me. What’s the point if I can’t reflect on it through a slightly messy, very human, very me kind of piece?

I’ve never felt more out of place and never felt more determined to stay anyway. And sometimes, in those quiet in-between moments, I wonder if I’ve only made it this far because of luck. Which is a good place to pause?

Luck. Privilege. The question of whether I’ve earned any of this. These aren’t just passing thoughts; they’re the ones that return often, shaping how I write and how I see myself.

We’re told a clean story: work hard, believe in yourself, and everything will fall into place. It’s comforting. Linear. Easy to digest. I don’t find myself convinced on this.

Yes, I’ve done things. I’ve started projects, followed through on ideas, and shown up even when no one was watching. But lately I’ve been asking myself: would those dots even exist, those pieces of work people now point to, if I hadn’t had the conditions to make them possible?

Because the truth is, I had the time to try. I had the language to articulate what I wanted. I had mentors who replied to cold emails, communities that welcomed me in, and parents who said “go ahead” instead of “be careful.” I had schools that gave me a head start, and networks that others spend years trying to reach. And that’s what we call luck. Not the lottery-ticket kind. The kind that feels invisible until you start noticing how many people never had it. The kind that accumulates over time and shapes the floor beneath your feet, without ever announcing itself, almost like a trampoline (iykyk) to bounce you back up.

So when people say, “you’ve earned this,” I don’t disagree, but I also don’t let that be the full sentence. I have worked, yes. But I have also been held up. The dots I connected weren’t floating in empty space. They were placed within reach. The circumstances that made that possible: proximity, safety, timing, and access are part of the story too.

This job, then, isn’t just the result of what I have done; it’s a reflection of what I’ve had the chance to do. A reminder that I moved through systems and safety nets that made the trying possible in the first place.

It doesn’t undo the effort I’ve put in. It just reminds me that effort was never the only thing at play. And that’s a humbling thing to hold, especially when people think you made it all on your own.

That every attempt I’ve made, visible or not, has shaped something in me. This newsletter. A podcast. A failed startup. An international forum. A hundred drafts that never got published. Each one added something. Each one was a dot. And now, this job feels like a line drawn through those dots. Not a perfect line. Not a straight one. But a line I can finally see. And that means something.

I’m beginning to learn that we rarely arrive anywhere feeling fully ready. We arrive with our questions. With our awkwardness. And if we’re lucky, we get to stay long enough to grow into the version of ourselves that feels more sure-footed. So no, this isn’t a “look how far I’ve come” post. It’s a breadcrumb I’m leaving for myself. A reminder.

Which brings me here, finally. If you made it through all that to the reveal! I now work at Arka Mediaworks, as part of the marketing and fan engagement team for the Baahubali 10-year re-release and the journeys that follow. It feels surreal to type that out—stranger still to say it aloud. Like stepping into a world I once watched from a distance, now suddenly handed the map and the key. To be part of something this grand, this mythic, feels a little like standing at the gates of Mahishmati, not as a spectator, but with a seat at the royal table. It feels like it belongs to some shinier, more polished version of myself. But it doesn’t.

And maybe that’s the point. This dot, this moment, this job, it wasn’t planned. It wasn’t forced. But it arrived. And it makes the blur of the past feel a little more coherent.

Maybe things are coming together in ways I won’t fully understand yet. Maybe what feels like drifting is actually movement. I’m not sure. But maybe that’s okay. Some things only make sense when you look back.

I always thought I’d feel different by now. Like I’d know what I was doing. Like I’d have some plan—some roadmap—anything to anchor me. But all I’ve got is this silence. This strange, empty space is where my next step should be. I’ve officially written my last exam as an undergrad. Yeah, it’s truly over. And yet... it doesn’t feel like something else has begun. It just feels like nothing.

For the past few years, I've moved with a script. College gave me rhythm, direction—a checklist of things to do: classes, assignments, internships, projects, networking. Even in the chaos, I knew what was expected. There was a system. A structure.

And now? Now it’s just me. A dozen tabs open. Job portals. A blank document. And a quiet, creeping uncertainty. The one plan I had for further studies didn’t work out, so here I am, with even more questions and even less clarity.

I scroll through job listings, but everything feels slightly off. The roles are vague, the companies unfamiliar, the qualifications either too much or too little—never quite the right fit. “3–5 years of experience” for an entry-level position. “Self-starter.” “Adaptable.” Sure, that makes sense in theory, but what exactly is the role? What does this company even do? Is this real—or is it just another scam hidden in corporate language? Each listing feels like a quiet nudge, a reminder of everything I am not. Or at least, everything I don’t feel like I am right now. Still, I keep applying. Not because I genuinely want these jobs, but because I need some kind of confirmation that I am seen. That what I’ve done so far hasn’t disappeared into a void. That I still matter. That I am not invisible. Someone will want me, right?

But then I pause to recalibrate. Why am I chasing things I don’t want? Why am I stuck in this cycle of performance and pretence? I am not applying out of ambition anymore—I am applying because it’s the only thing I know how to do. The only motion that feels like progress. Even if it’s not.

And the job market? It feels broken and warped. Like a system designed to exhaust you. Positions are posted and then vanish. Applications disappear into voids. Some listings feel performative, like they’re not even meant to be filled—just placeholders for some illusion of opportunity. And meanwhile, we—the fresh graduates, the so-called “young talent”—are asked to jump through hoops with no end in sight. We’re told to hustle, to be grateful, to be patient, to be extraordinary. All at once.

I open LinkedIn. It asks, “Do you want to show you’re open to work?” And every time, I hesitate. I am not sure why. Maybe it’s pride. Maybe it’s fear. Maybe I just don’t want the algorithm to decide who I am before I do. Maybe I am afraid of seeming desperate, like my peers will judge me for it. But then again, they’re all doing it too. So what exactly am I afraid of?

And then there’s school—again. A tempting escape route. A delay button. I catch myself googling graduate programs late at night. Not because I am passionate about a subject, but because it feels like something to do. A way to avoid the vacuum of not knowing. But the thought lingers, do I really need another degree to qualify for jobs that still might not want me? And if I study again, do I specialise or generalise? Either way, it costs. In money, in time, in energy. And even with the privilege of not being under immediate financial pressure, the choice doesn’t feel free. It feels like stalling. Like building another bridge to nowhere.

So I wonder, should I just make something instead? Start that podcast I keep turning over in my mind. Put down the stories that live in my head, half-formed and whispering. Maybe even write a book. Or start a YouTube channel, and post whatever comes to me—my thoughts, my days, my strange, shapeless opinions. Just to feel like I am doing something that’s mine. But I also know myself. I know how often I begin things and never finish. How quickly excitement gives way to self-doubt. How hesitation sits heavier than ambition. And yet, the urge to create doesn’t go away. It lingers. It presses. Maybe that’s the only honest thing in all this confusion, the need to make something, even if I don’t yet know what it is or who it’s for. Maybe creation is the only way I know how to feel real again.

And in the background of all this sits the loudest question of all: “So, what are you doing now?” Everyone asks it. Family. Friends. Random people who once knew your name. It’s never malicious, just casually cruel. Because what do I say? “I am figuring it out”? How many times can you repeat that before it starts to sound like failure?

The unusual part is, I am not even sad. Not in the way people expect. I am not wallowing or falling apart. I am just... here. Suspended in this in-between. And somehow, that makes it harder to explain. Because how do you talk about being lost when you don’t look like you are falling? Or how do you explain to people who aren’t where you are?

I know I am not alone in this. Everyone I talk to is drifting in the same strange fog. Some are taking jobs they don’t want. Others are starting things they can’t finish. Some are just waiting. Hoping something gives. There’s no clear path anymore. Just parallel uncertainties.

But maybe that’s part of it. Maybe this waiting, this wandering, this uncomfortable in-between, maybe it’s not some grand failure or sign that I’ve lost my way. Maybe it’s just... part of the game. Not every level comes with instructions. Not every next move is obvious. Maybe you just keep moving and figure it out as you go.

So here I am: standing at the edge of the map, blinking cursor hovering over a hundred unopened tabs. No real quest. No guide. Just a screen full of possibilities and a vague sense of urgency.

What now?
Create something?
Apply again?
Rest?
Reinvent?

If this were a video game, maybe this is the part where I would hand the controller to you.

What would you do next?
Any side quests? Secret tunnels? Leads?
Because I am here.
Open world.
No roadmap.
Just… loading.

Your move.

Some of these spaces hold a strange kind of duality.
A classroom where I once stood tall after acing a presentation- only to later sit in the same room, shattered by a conversation that changed me in ways I’m still learning to name.
A bench in front of the canteen where I cried quietly after a hard day- only to laugh there until my stomach hurt with friends who turned that place into something softer, something safe.

There’s a spot in front of Hideaway, a small food corner near our college, our literal “hideaway”—inside, spent numerous days escaping to have a small cup of coffee and a mere 10 metres ahead, a small, ordinary patch that turned into a sacred pause between things. I’ve stood there countless times, caught in conversations with people who knew different sides of me. It leads into the main road, where lives diverge—some rushing to the metro, others hopping into autos, and people like me, walking slowly in a direction that feels like no one else’s.

That space held long goodbyes we never wanted to end.
It’s where I stood, just one step away from separating, suspended in that delicate moment of not quite yet.

Where we shared the strange, inexplicable dreams we had the night before, our lives so deeply intertwined that they manifested into a made-up, imaginary reality of our own beyond the real world we shared. And in the same space, other dreams quietly shattered with the weight of disappointing news.
How do you say goodbye to that space?

I’ll remember laughing uncontrollably in the lab, drawing curious stares from faculty and students alike—always brushing it off, saying it was just something in the AC air.
And somehow, in that very same lab, in that cold AC air, we later found ourselves sitting quietly, tears slipping down our cheeks, mourning the inevitability of parting ways.

There’s another corner etched in memory—the mini canteen, where I used to grab a chilled hazelnut Smoodh before it vanished with the supplier switch in my final semester. Another quiet, unexpected goodbye.
It was the same space where we once scribbled out our radio jingle: spontaneous, chaotic, brimming with laughter and that rare, absurdly perfect synergy.
And it was here, too, where I once sat with swollen eyes, holding the weight of my nani’s passing, moments before I had to pull myself together and face an examiner for my final viva.

These spaces are chameleons—shifting hues with our moods.
Even the gloomiest days are tinted with lilac skies in memory, softened by glee that somehow lingers.

There was one specific tree bench I once watched from a distance, where others practised dances and lived moments I only observed. I would pass by quietly, earphones in, eyes on the ground. But I was watching. Always watching.
Watching people laugh effortlessly, share food and tease each other.

It felt like I was on the outside of something sacred. Even if I was there, it wasn’t quite the same.
And for a while, I convinced myself that was enough, to just be a spectator.

But spaces have a way of waiting.
They don’t rush you.
They observe you too, until you’re ready.

One day, not too long ago, maybe just a month back, I found myself there, without even realising it. I had become the very person I used to watch from afar: laughing, part of a rehearsal, creating memories of my own.

These shared spaces feel almost like inheritance, passed down from batch to batch like a generational gift. And yet, just as you begin to make them your own, you're asked to leave them behind. That grief of departing from a space you've only just begun to understand feels like a generational curse.

These spaces didn’t just exist around me- they held me, cradled the quiet parts of me I wasn’t ready to share. In a way, they were aspirations. I had just truly arrived—after three long years of being a silent observer. And in the end, I found myself doing exactly what I had once only watched others do. It felt like an odd sort of triumph.

My PG- a second home. The first time I ever shared a space with someone else. The quiet walks under the streetlights to the Kirana shop. Sitting with the cats in Neem Park, feeling like the world had slowed just for a moment as I stroked their necks. The phone calls I had, pacing around that oval cement bench surrounding the tree, waiting to tell the punch line of my story. The late-night project submissions, hunched over my desk on my bed in silence sitting together racing against time itself.

And now, someone else will inhabit that same room, those same walls that once held our 2 a.m. conversations over chai, laughter echoing softly in the silence of the night. Sleep in the same bed. Stare at the same wall that once heard my late-night confessions.

Nothing is physically ending.
The buildings will remain. The doors will stay open.
But the emotional architecture is crumbling.

New faces will sit in the chairs I once did. New footsteps will echo in the hallways.
And yet, the version of college I knew will quietly vanish, because it only existed through the lens of my experience.

Some spaces evolved with me.
They were once shared with people I no longer speak to, memories now carrying the weight of silence. And yet, I returned to them, slowly reclaiming them with new people, new stories, new laughter.
In some rooms, I have lived entire lives.

Even in my first week here, I sensed it, these walls had already seen so much.
Someone had cried here before me. Laughed until their stomach hurt.
Sat in silence, unsure of where they were headed—and still found their way.

The scratched desks, the faded doodles, the chair that says “kiss my ass”, they gave me a strange kind of comfort.
Proof that this place had been alive before I arrived.
That I wasn’t the first to belong, and I won’t be the last to leave.

And now, as I prepare to leave, it feels like I am fading too—or maybe I’m the one slowly being erased from them.
There’s also a strange jealousy, knowing someone else will soon take over, never knowing what it once held.
If the person now sitting where I once sat can feel the layers beneath their moment.

It’s strange how a place can look exactly the same and still feel entirely unfamiliar.
Because we don’t just occupy space—we shape it.
We breathe meaning into the mundane.
And when we leave, a version of that place leaves with us.

So maybe this is my quiet goodbye.
An obituary for the spaces that held me when I didn’t know I needed holding.
For the walls that bore witness to the becoming of me, before they become someone else’s to love.

This question posed as an answer, came from my uncle, tossed into the midst of a family conversation sitting in the living room of my nani’s house in Dehradun. We were sifting through old memories—some good, some painful—when he said it. The words hung in the air, met with murmurs of agreement. They felt like an answer to an unspoken question, addressing the quiet discomfort that had settled into my life. Not quite comforting, not entirely critical—just enough to nudge me toward reflection.

For weeks, maybe months, I’d felt weighed down by my own expectations. Each day seemed to drag endlessly, accompanied by the persistent hum of self-doubt. I felt like I was teetering on the edge, one bad moment away from unravelling. And yet, I kept moving forward, because the world doesn’t stop, and I had to begrudgingly move ahead.

That’s when the opportunity to visit Doon Vihar arose. My nani’s house in Dehradun had always been a sanctuary, a place where summers stretched into golden childhood memories. The thought of returning sparked a flicker of excitement, of escape, but as the trip drew closer, quiet dread set in. This visit wouldn’t be like the others. It was a goodbye—a final farewell to the home that had been the epicentre of my childhood. Nani had passed away in late October, and we were returning to perform rituals in her home.

The dread wasn’t just about the house; it was everything. My final semester of college loomed ahead, a period of transition that felt less like stepping into a new chapter and more like standing on the edge of a precipice. The world demanded answers: What will you do next? Who will you become? Adding to that weight was Nani’s loss, a grief that echoed through the family in ways I hadn’t anticipated. I felt a shift in the people I loved most—a yearning for how things used to be, as though I could somehow rewrite the story or slow the passage of time. They say you hurt as deeply as you love, and her absence was proof of that.

Still, we made the journey. The city stirred a strange mix of emotions. It felt both familiar and distant, like a childhood friend you hadn’t seen in years. Walking through the gates of her house in Doon Vihar was like stepping into a memory. The house stood just as I remembered, its walls entrenched with her stories.

Inside, everything was the same—and yet, it wasn’t. The living room still held the sofa where we’d played endless card games, the kitchen gave me a phantom aroma of her rajma, and the crockery cupboard was filled with photos of us. A framed photograph of her now rested on a cupboard in the living room, her smiling face seeming to reassure us that she was still watching over everything. It wasn’t the absence I had feared; it was a quiet presence, lingering in every corner.

Exploring Dehradun became part of my healing. The Sai Baba Mandir, which we visited every time I went, still radiated serenity. Standard Bakery’s rusks and Ellora’s pastries tasted exactly as I remembered, each bite transporting me back to simpler times. Walking through the streets looking at all so familiar pop and shop shops and that all but familiar Pahadi rhythm of Hindi. Even the cafes my cousin and I visited offered moments of quiet reflection and long conversations, as though the city itself understood the gravity of our visit. It felt almost choreographed as if Nani herself had arranged everything to give us this balance of grief and celebration.

The trip extended beyond Nani’s house. A visit to my paternal grandparents’ village added another layer of depth. Life there moved at a slower pace, grounding me in its simplicity. We peeled grapefruits under the sun, had dal chawal made by my Dadi, and vigorously shook a plastic dabba to make white butter with my Dadaji. These small acts, steeped in rhythm and tradition, reminded me of the richness in life’s unadorned moments—a stark contrast to the chaos I had left behind.

A part of my life has ended, the year has drawn to a close, and with college nearing its finish, I’m left navigating a swirl of emotions I’m still working to understand. It feels like the right time to redefine what life means to me—what success truly looks like, when to push forward, and when to step back. I want to hold myself accountable while also learning to let go of what’s beyond my control—a balance that feels more crucial now than ever.

As I look ahead to 2025, I carry this lesson with me: there will be moments of uncertainty, days when the heaviness returns, and times when I feel lost. But there will also be beauty—if I choose to see it. This intentional perspective gives me a sense of control and hope for what lies ahead.

This past year has been filled with opportunities, growth, and love. It’s incredible to reflect on travelling abroad for the Youth Forum Leadership Summit in Colombo, Sri Lanka, completing my NDTV internship where I even went on-air and held a leadership position I aspired to when I first entered college. Beyond these milestones, there have been countless personal moments and connections for which I am deeply grateful.

As I left Dehradun, I carried more than just memories—I carried the quiet reminder that good things don’t just happen to us. They’re choices we make: seeing love in the cracks, presence in absence, and meaning in life’s fragments. This wasn’t just a goodbye to Nani’s house; it was a reminder of all the love and strength I carry with me, the people that make it special. It was an ending, yes, but also a beginning in its own way.

I have a lot to look back on, which means these questions about the future are all okay. I want to embrace the bittersweet, let go of the fear of endings, and find joy in the spaces between. Endings, after all, can be beginnings in disguise—a chance to redefine, rebuild, and find joy in the spaces between.

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“And now let us believe in a long year that is given to us, new, untouched, full of things that have never been, full of work that has never been done, full of tasks, claims, and demands; and let us see that we learn to take it without letting fall too much of what it has to bestow upon those who demand of it necessary, serious, and great things.”

―Rainer Maria Rilke,Letters of Rainer Maria Rilke, 1892-1910

Happy New Year everyone, I hope your year is just as fruitful and happy as you wish it to be! Because good things don’t just happen. We create them, piece by piece, moment by moment. And that, I think, is the most beautiful thing of all.

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As a member of Gen Z, I often feel the need to defend my generation against the relentless stereotypes hurled at us—lazy, entitled, overly sensitive, or just apathetic. These labels not only hurt but also oversimplify who we are and what we’ve endured. Like many, I’ve been conflicted when faced with these criticisms. Initially, I stayed silent—not out of agreement but because I wasn’t sure how to respond. I didn’t resent older generations; in fact, I even understood where some of their frustrations came from. But what I couldn’t accept was the persistent lack of empathy directed at us.

This conflict eventually led me here—to sit down, reflect, and try to make sense of it all. What began as an attempt to defend Gen Z turned into something more profound. I realized that to counter these stereotypes, I had to look deeper—not just at the external criticisms we face but also at the truths and contradictions within ourselves.

The result? A three-part exploration of our generation through the lenses of Work, Mind, and Social Life. These essays aren’t just about rebuking the criticisms; they’re about understanding how the world we’ve inherited has shaped us and, in turn, how we’re reshaping it.

Work

One of the most common accusations thrown at Gen Z is that we’re “lazy” or “entitled.” These oversimplifications miss the bigger picture. Unlike older generations, we’ve come of age in a world that feels increasingly unstable. The traditional pathways to success—higher education, stable jobs, and homeownership—no longer guarantee security, let alone happiness.

We’re navigating the fallout of global crises, from recessions to pandemics, while adapting to a rapidly digitizing world. These experiences have reshaped our ambitions and priorities. Instead of chasing the traditional markers of success, many of us are prioritizing flexibility, balance, and purpose. It’s not that we don’t value hard work; we’ve just realized that hard work within broken systems doesn’t always yield results.

Take the rise of gig economies, remote work, and entrepreneurial ventures. For us, these aren’t just trends; they’re survival mechanisms in a volatile world. We’re not rejecting hard work—we’re redefining it in ways that align with the uncertain times we live in.

Mind

Another stereotype that stings is the notion that we’re “fragile” or “too sensitive.” The reality is that we’ve grown up in a world where mental health issues, once ignored or stigmatized, are now part of everyday conversations. But that doesn’t mean we’re weak—it means we’ve had to confront challenges head-on that others once swept under the rug.

We’ve grown up in the digital age, constantly bombarded by news of global crises, climate change, social injustice, and more. Information overload isn’t just a phenomenon for us; it’s our reality. Yet, instead of succumbing to despair, we’ve made mental health and self-care priorities. We’ve embraced therapy, mindfulness, and open conversations about well-being as tools for survival.

However, even these efforts are not without complications. The rise of wellness culture has turned vulnerability into a commodity, with social media often turning genuine struggles into curated performances. Navigating this balance—between authenticity and the commercialization of mental health—is one of our generation’s greatest challenges.

But fragility? No. What we’ve shown is resilience. Choosing to address our anxieties and challenges openly isn’t a sign of weakness—it’s a testament to our strength.

Social

Gen Z exists in a world that is simultaneously hyperconnected and isolating. Social media has amplified our voices like never before, giving us platforms to challenge injustices, demand inclusivity, and share our perspectives. But it has also trapped us in echo chambers, where algorithms prioritize outrage and engagement over nuance and understanding.

Our activism often reflects this duality. On the one hand, we’re demanding systemic change and challenging the status quo; on the other, we’re constantly battling the constraints of performative cycles. It’s exhausting to navigate a world where your worth and your voice seem tied to likes, shares, and comments.

Take the example of Greta Thunberg. She’s a Gen Z icon not just because of her climate activism but because of her refusal to sanitize her message for mass approval. Greta represents a kind of authenticity that resonates deeply with us: unpolished, unapologetic, and driven by purpose. She’s proof that genuine change doesn’t come from curated narratives; it comes from confronting uncomfortable truths.

For all our ideals, though, we face the question: Are we truly redefining social norms, or are we still playing within systems we claim to reject?

A Generation in Context

Writing this reflection has been more than an act of defence. I started with the intent to argue against the criticisms of Gen Z, but I ended up learning so much more about my position in a world shaped by instability, information overload, and the constant push-and-pull between tradition and progress.

Are we perfect? No. But neither is the world we’ve inherited. This is not a call for absolution or excuses but a call for understanding. Older generations might find it easy to criticize us, but they need to recognize the unique pressures that have shaped us. And we, in turn, need to keep reflecting on how we can rise above these challenges to create a better world—not just for ourselves but for those who come after us.

So, what do you think? Are we breaking the mould or simply reacting to chaos?

Let’s start the conversation.

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The prevailing “doom and gloom” narrative has undeniably shaped Gen Z’s outlook, leading many to adopt a detached, sometimes sarcastic view of the world. We feel misled and powerless. This supposed “apathy” may not stem from indifference but rather from disappointment with systems that have consistently failed to deliver meaningful change. For some, this apathy might even be performative—a product of a culture that values ironic detachment and finds emotional vulnerability hard to express.

Generation Z isn’t apathetic—we’re exhausted. Living in a world constantly on fire, both figuratively and literally, we’re bombarded by tragedy on every feed, headline, and post. Ours is a generation thrust into a media landscape that profits off perpetual crises, creating a cycle where we’re urged to react, to take action, to show we care, only for the next tragedy to roll in almost immediately. From Protests to Pet Videos in 5 Seconds, that’s our life.

However, we still lack significant representation in lawmaking. I can’t imagine someone destructive of the establishments to be part of the lawmaking. In such a scenario, not showing our fears becomes a survival mechanism; we appear detached to protect ourselves from constant, overwhelming sadness and fear.

Repeated disappointments have fostered a kind of learned cynicism, prompting Gen Z to cope with challenges through humour and detachment. Growing up in an era of excess and superficiality, where social media reigns supreme, we are constantly flooded with information where everything is a meme or a witty quip. This overexposure has desensitized many of us, creating a tendency to swipe past pressing issues or, conversely, engage with causes so intensely that we expect universal buy-in.

Ironically, while we celebrate our freedom to define ourselves, our identities are increasingly shaped not by personal autonomy but by digital algorithms. Our understanding of the world, our choices, and even our values are often filtered and curated by forces beyond our control, creating a tension between our desire for self-definition and the constraints imposed by a digital world that endlessly seeks to define us.

In previous generations, identity was often built around family, community, culture, and personal experiences. While these elements still matter, Gen Z’s sense of self is increasingly moulded by what we consume online. Algorithms don’t just show us content; they subtly shape our reality by filtering what we see, hear, and even believe. When we scroll through posts, join discussions, and share content, we’re surrounded by voices that appear to mirror our own. The social identity we build online feels so complete, so validated, that we come to assume it reflects the views of our entire generation.

I’ve been taken aback, even shocked, to realize that many young people don’t share the same progressive or socially conscious values that my social media suggested were universal. It’s a wake-up call to discover that opinions, political leanings, and even cultural perspectives that I assumed were widely accepted are, in fact, just fragments of a broader and more diverse reality.

Yet, stepping outside this digital ecosystem reveals a different story. In the real world, we encounter people who are disconnected from the “norms” set by our online communities. They might not prioritize the same causes or see issues through the same lens. For someone steeped in the world of digital discourse, this is a jarring revelation. How could the people around me, who are my age and part of my generation, hold views that feel so out of sync with what I thought we all agreed on?

This gap between our curated digital selves and the diversity of real-world experiences highlights a paradox: social media, which promises connection, often isolates us from the perspectives we need most. In building our online communities, we sometimes create echo chambers, narrowing our worldview without even realizing it. For a generation that values inclusivity, it’s ironic that we can be quick to dismiss anyone who doesn’t fit the mould of our carefully constructed online ideals. The internet has become a place where even subtle disagreements can lead to outsized reactions, with people quick to “correct” others rather than seek understanding.

We’re dictating the rules of society with a digital stick, pressuring everyone to conform to the same norms and ideals—even when these ideals lack the nuance that real-world situations demand. Rage bait becomes the catalyst for engagement; people respond most intensely when something clashes with their carefully curated feeds. That singular content, deviating from the algorithms that reinforce our beliefs, quickly ignites backlash or hostility. It’s a reactive cycle that keeps us engaged but leaves little room for the complexity or empathy that fosters true understanding.

How can we, as young adults just stepping into the world, feel hopeful in such an environment? Our sense of possibility and optimism feels stifled when we're constantly bombarded with extremes. There’s little room for measured, thoughtful conversations—the kind that might allow us to bridge divides or see the world from another’s eyes. So, I ask, can you? Can you genuinely feel hopeful about a world where disagreement so often devolves into discord, and where the algorithms seem to thrive on our disillusionment?

Even our idols—the influencers and pop culture icons we “stan”—seem distant and scripted. When these celebrities endorse a cause, we know it's filtered through layers of branding and PR. Of course, there are exceptions. Take Gen Z activists like Greta Thunberg, who rose to prominence for her unflinching approach to climate activism. Greta could have comfortably embraced a mainstream role as the “face of climate change,” gaining popularity without controversy. Instead, she has boldly chosen to call out the entanglements of environmental harm, capitalism, and imperialism, even at the risk of being criticized from all sides.

Greta’s stance defies the typical labels, challenging both left and right by refusing to sanitize her message to fit into a palatable, "acceptable" form of activism. She doesn’t mould herself to appease either side, and she doesn’t simply champion progressives because they’re “on the right side.” Her activism is a challenge to everyone—calling us all to examine our own roles within these systems. This kind of resistance and authenticity is rare, especially in a world where powerful interests often attempt to co-opt or dilute the messages of prominent figures. Greta’s voice and actions make clear that genuine activism isn’t about alignment with any particular camp; it’s about addressing the root causes of the world’s problems, no matter how uncomfortable the truth may be.

Gen Z is often celebrated as socially aware and progressive—and to an extent, we are. We’re passionate, empathetic, and ready to challenge the status quo, even when the issues don’t directly affect us. Yet, the reality is more nuanced and at times darker. For most of us, activism has become more of a trend than a commitment. No one’s beliefs are all correct because there are no correct beliefs.

Our tools for questioning and understanding are vast, yet our perspectives are often limited by what the algorithm chooses to show us. This, perhaps, is Gen Z’s central struggle: we seek authenticity in a world designed to keep us uncertain.

In human behaviour, rationality is the exception, not the rule. Gen Z’s journey underscores this truth. We live in a paradox—empowered by digital tools yet constrained by them, yearning for change yet often caught in cycles of surface-level engagement.

Are we truly free to define ourselves, or have we just traded traditional labels for digital cages? Gen Z’s identity is less a self-made declaration than a digital mirage, one that leaves us asking, in a world so influenced by unseen forces, whether we know ourselves at all.

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We are living in an age where information is instant, constant, and often overwhelming. Never before has a generation been exposed to such a flood of global crises. Every day, we are inundated with images of wars, climate catastrophes, economic instability, and human suffering. These events are often shared in bite-sized formats on social media, news apps, and online forums—delivered straight to our phones in real-time. It’s an emotional exhaustion unlike anything previous generations experienced, and it can be hard to keep up with the overwhelming pace of both life and the news cycle.

Yet, despite this deluge of information, our generation doesn’t simply endure. We pause, reflect, and question. We prioritize mental health in a way that challenges old norms and insists on a more compassionate worldview. For us, acknowledging our emotions—whether joy, anger, sadness, or fear—is not a weakness. It’s how we make sense of a chaotic world. We have learned that in order to thrive, we must first understand and take care of ourselves.

As we navigate these complexities, one emerging issue stands out: the commodification of our feelings. This, rather than our emotional expression, is the true target. Vulnerability, self-care, mental health, it all seems to be getting turned into a product. From “mindfulness apps” to “self-care kits,” these once deeply personal practices have become marketable trends. The irony here is undeniable, while we’re actively trying to better understand and address our emotional well-being, there’s an industry keen on turning those very emotions into a source of profit.

Take therapy, for example. For us, therapy has become an essential resource, a vital part of staying grounded in a world that’s always shifting. But increasingly, therapy has been marketed as part of the broader self-care trend, a luxury service packaged with the promise of instant happiness. What was once seen as a tool for healing has now been transformed into something that fits neatly within the larger wellness culture, often reduced to just another “must-have” on the path to personal perfection. It’s capitalism at its finest, rebranding mental health as a commodity, while obscuring its true value: emotional and psychological support.

And yet, dismissing therapy or any form of emotional support simply because it’s been commercialized is not the solution. Rather than perpetuate harmful stereotypes or resist these practices, we should be focusing on how to regulate and maintain their integrity. Therapy should be recognized for what it truly is: an essential tool for emotional resilience, not a luxury or a trend. We need to resist the narrative that “fixing” ourselves is an indulgence. In a world where traditional support systems have eroded, therapy offers continuity, consistency, and a steady hand in a rapidly evolving social landscape.

Unlike previous generations, who adhered to more rigid social structures and expectations, we lack a clear blueprint to follow. Our world is evolving too quickly—technologically, socially, and politically. The systems that once guided older generations, often prioritizing survival over emotional expression, have fractured. In their place, we’re left grappling with a reality that shifts constantly beneath our feet.

For us, vulnerability has become an essential tool for navigating these changes. When we “vent” or “complain,” it’s not about seeking attention—it’s about making sense of a fragmented world. Expression allows us to acknowledge our problems and validate our emotions. There’s immense relief in recognizing what we’re going through and giving it a name.

Dismissing the psychology of our minds is akin to rejecting medical care. Mental health deserves the same legitimacy as physical health. As we process and express our feelings, we’re laying the groundwork for personal resilience. We’re figuring out who we are in a landscape where the lines between what’s real and what’s curated are increasingly blurred. This is the work of survival in the digital age.

Social media is both a blessing and a curse in our journey toward emotional wellness. On the one hand, it connects us, allows us to share our stories, and creates a sense of community. Unlike previous generations, Gen Z has the ability to create and share content with ease. Social media serves as a window into the world, connecting people who might never have crossed paths and giving a platform to voices that have historically been unheard. Over time, this promotes awareness and opens minds to new ways of thinking.

However, the vastness of our digital worlds can be overwhelming. It is one of the cause of our mental health issues. Social media surrounds us with idealized images—perfect bodies, perfect lives, perfect moments. The constant exposure to these curated versions of reality can take a heavy toll on our self-worth, even when we know, intellectually, that they’re merely highlights and not the full picture.

Here lies the true value of therapy in the modern age. It offers a sanctuary from the pressure to measure up to digital standards and the harshness of a world constantly at our fingertips. Therapy provides us with a stable sense of self, one that isn't reliant on likes, shares, or digital applause. We need it because we’ve moved past the ‘just deal with it’ mentality, believe us, we’ve tried.

We’re navigating a complex world with open eyes, acknowledging our emotions, and doing our best to thrive amidst the chaos. We’re rejecting the outdated notion that resilience means burying our feelings, and instead, we’re redefining strength to prioritize vulnerability and self-awareness. Most importantly, we are young! Yes, we are emotional and abrasive, weren’t you all once? We might take longer to work through things, not because we don’t want to grow, but because the world doesn’t allow us to fully experience growth. Our adolescence feels stunted, shaped by circumstances beyond our control. Therapy, mental health resources, and self-care are not indulgences, they are essential tools for our survival and emotional well-being. We must strive to create a world where vulnerability is valued, not mistaken for weakness, and where emotional well-being is seen as fundamental to living a fulfilling life.

Rather than seeing ourselves as dependent on these trends, we’re equipping ourselves with strategies to manage and protect our emotional experiences. It’s a process—one that may succeed or face setbacks. But ultimately, we’re aiming for more than just survival. We want lives imbued with purpose, genuine connection, and intentional care.

Let me ask this: How many of you here had to launch your careers during a global pandemic, a time when we were encouraged to keep to ourselves, only to now be blamed for being “lazy” or “inflexible” for questioning rigid work structures? None? That’s because this is a reality unique to our generation. Behind the labels and accusations, there are deeper reasons for why we think, feel, and act differently from previous generations—and those reasons are worth exploring.

The assumption that Gen Z lacks resilience or ambition stems from a misunderstanding of the unique challenges we face. Many believe we’re “unready” for the real world because we grew up in relative comfort. While this is partially true—many of us were raised in more protected environments than past generations—this support has left us with expectations that no longer match reality. We grew up being told that hard work would yield success, but we’re now confronted with a different world, one where financial security and stability are elusive even for those who work hard. We experienced remote work fresh into our work lives and saw personal come into professional.

The economic landscape we face is harsher than ever. With rising costs of housing, education, and healthcare, and an unpredictable job market, many of us are caught between high expectations and limited opportunities, creating a push-and-pull that’s difficult to reconcile. The reality that we might never attain the same financial security our parents enjoyed, despite having been raised with similar ambitions, is a painful and jarring realization. Our experience mirrors the flawed assumption that people living in poverty are solely at fault for their circumstances when in fact, they’re often victims of systemic issues beyond their control.

In reality, the world we’re entering operates by rules that seem increasingly detached from those we were taught. Our hardships stem not from a lack of effort but from economic forces and structures that don’t reward labour in the ways they used to. A college degree, once considered a golden ticket, now often feels like a step into an unyielding “rat race” that offers diminishing returns. Hard work certainly matters, but so do luck and the larger socioeconomic forces shaping our lives.

The COVID-19 pandemic was a transformative event for us, reshaping our outlook on work, mental health, and life itself. For many, the pandemic proved that productivity could be maintained outside the traditional office, challenging long-held assumptions about work that had previously gone unquestioned. As remote work became the norm, we saw how flexibility could coexist with productivity, and even thrive in some cases. Now, as companies mandate a return to the office, the disillusionment among Gen Z deepens. We experienced a glimpse of balance—of work fitting within life rather than life revolving around work—and returning to pre-pandemic expectations feels regressive. Our resistance to inflexible structures isn't laziness; it’s a demand for a more humane approach that values well-being as much as output.

The digital age, meanwhile, brings both unprecedented convenience and a relentless flood of information. This constant exposure can feel overwhelming and chaotic, making it hard to feel enthusiastic about climbing a traditional corporate ladder when each day brings new crises demanding our emotional resilience. The sensation of being “lost” isn’t a sign of apathy but a reflection of an unpredictable world. The job market offers little security, with “gig economy” roles often replacing stable, long-term positions. In this climate, the glorified hustle culture feels neither sustainable nor viable. Our preference for balance isn’t a rejection of hard work but a response to burnout’s inevitability.

We’ve seen firsthand how easily life can change and how unpredictable the future can be. Our approach to work and life reflects this shift in priorities. Where Baby Boomers and Gen X emphasized long hours and loyalty, we value flexibility, mental health, and purpose. Older generations might see this as laziness, but for us, it’s an attempt to thrive in a world that’s relentless. Traditional markers of success, like owning a home or achieving financial independence, feel increasingly out of reach. Instead, we’re recalibrating our goals, seeking stability, meaningful connections, and mental well-being over endless ambition.

Some may label us “woke” for challenging outdated systems or accuse us of “giving up” because we don’t conform to traditional ideas of hard work. But our approach isn’t about rebelling against the past; it’s about adapting to the realities of today. We’re here to question systems that don’t serve us, address injustices, and carve paths that align with the demands of this era.

In a world marked by profound instability, our pursuit of balance, purpose, and well-being reflects a resilience tailored to help us endure—not merely to survive, but to live meaningfully. COVID-19 didn’t just shake the world; it shook our perspective. We lost so many young lives during the pandemic, and for those of us who came of age in that time, the experience has left a lasting imprint. Life no longer feels like a long, uphill journey with endless optimism about “making it” someday. Instead, we view life as precious and finite, something to be cherished in the here and now. This is why we prioritize self-care, mental health, and sustainability, even if that means redefining what “hard work” and “success” look like.

So, the next time someone views our “laziness” or career choices as a rejection of ambition, consider that we’re making deliberate choices to sustain ourselves in an uncertain world. We’ve inherited a world more chaotic than ever, yet within this uncertainty lies strength. Many young people in our generation are grounded, empathetic, and mature beyond their years. We’re not “lost”; rather, we’re rejecting outdated structures and forging our own paths, driven by resilience and a determination to not merely survive but thrive. For us, resilience isn’t about endless stress for an unattainable dream; it’s about balance, meaning, and the strength to face a world that’s anything but predictable.

“Death ends a life, not a relationship. All the love you created is still there. All the memories are still there. You live on- in the hearts of everyone you have touched and nurtured while you were here.”

―Morrie Schwartz

My Nani, Hemlata Dobhal, passed away on the morning of 26th October 2024. In the quiet, stunned silence, grief rises that words cannot fully hold. It feels too raw, too tender. How does one write about someone so close to their heart? How do words—my greatest strength—even begin to do her justice? For the first time, my pen feels uncertain, struggling to make sense of this loss.

I am shaken. It comes in waves, fresh each time I remember she’s truly gone. Moving from a world with Nani in it to one without feels impossible. I still feel the chill that crept over me when I heard the news, the way the world went silent. She was everything a matriarch should be. I never knew my grandfather—he lives on only through family stories and love—and I wonder sometimes if he would have liked me as she did. Would we have shared a bond as dear as the one I had with Nani? She had the best sense of humour and could turn anything into laughter, her wheeze-laugh so infectious it would bring tears to her eyes and everyone else’s. She was fiercely brave, living independently after her husband passed, carrying herself with the grace of a woman who truly knew herself.

Even as her body succumbed to illness, her mind stayed sharp, her wit and passion for knowledge undimmed. She was a remarkable woman who leaves behind a legacy of love and resilience, a memory cherished by all who had the honour to know her. I hope she’s now with Nanaji, carrying my love and my greeting to him at peace and without any pain.

This isn’t just grief of the present; it’s a sorrow that has been building quietly, a slow ache as I watched her life and laughter fade over time. I mourn not only the loss of her presence but also the life she deserved—a life free from pain, filled with the same love and joy she so effortlessly shared with the world. I hope she left this world knowing just how deeply she was cherished, by her children, her grandchildren, and everyone fortunate enough to have felt the warmth of her light. Everyone in our family is struggling to cope with the enormity of this loss; her presence was woven so deeply into our lives. I hope she knew the profound impact she had on my life.

She was the coolest soul I knew, open-minded, compassionate, and kind— She looked beyond human differences, beyond religion, beyond whom someone chose to love or what they chose to be. She hated intolerance, despised news of injustice, and always sympathized with the less privileged with an awareness about the world with empathy.

She never dismissed my ideas as youthful or naïve. Instead, she engaged me in meaningful conversations, valuing my thoughts despite her vast experience offering me insights, meeting me right where I was. Nani always made me feel that I was enough. She believed in me—not out of an expectation for greatness, but because she genuinely saw it in me. She would joke that she wasn't worried about my future because she trusted my instincts, unlike some of her other grandchildren whom she wished would have a bit more guidance. I laughed then, reveling in the joy of her unwavering trust, even as a teenager knowing she is saying this just to please me and make me laugh. How I wish I’d had the chance to prove her right. But I know she will always be with me, guiding my heart and steering me forward.

I hope she remains that quiet, steady voice in my mind during life’s challenges when doubt threatens to overwhelm me. I hope she wraps me in her embrace when I need her most, bringing my childhood memories flooding back and offering comfort. There’s no love quite like the unconditional love of a grandparent, and in her love, I find the strength to carry on.

I’ll hold on to our memories: the nights we laughed over TV shows, the meals we shared, her scolding me as I teased her for wanting “just one more” paratha. She was my first karate teacher, always defeating me easily, making me even more in awe of her. I will never forget our moments in Doon Vihar, her home in Dehradun, the way I’d crave her special white butter in Hyderabad, and how she always had a stack ready, hot parathas to accompany it. I will remember running with her to the milk truck on summer evenings and eating dinner with her daily after coming back from basketball when she stayed with us in Hyderabad. The times when it was just the two of us, as my parents travelled—I’ve had some of my best memories simply being by her side. I’ll cherish every moment, from our games when I was little to the honour of holding her at her final rest. Even as the last memories haunt me—the way she looked in those final moments—I would do it again, because it meant I got to be with her one last time.

I am so glad I have photos and videos of her laughing and joking. These memories are my most cherished, and even the pain of losing her feels, in its own way, like a privilege—because to love is a privilege. As they say, grief is simply love’s way of showing us what we had and how deeply we felt. I don’t know if this loss will ever truly ease or if I’ll just learn to carry it differently. Even now, a simple thought or mention of her brings tears. Talking about her stirs up such ache, but that doesn’t mean I won’t speak of her; I will do so with pride not matter what.

Morrie once said, “If you hold back on the emotions—if you don’t allow yourself to go all the way through them—you can never get to being detached, you’re too busy being afraid. You’re afraid of the pain, you’re afraid of the grief. You’re afraid of the vulnerability that loving entails.” This journey through grief is teaching me that to love fully means embracing all of it—the joy, the pain, and the quiet courage it takes to feel it all. But as these tears flow, filling the emptiness in my heart, I want to finally say this:

Nani, thank you for being my rock, my guide to strength and joy. You were the best grandmother I could have asked for, and though this goodbye feels unbearable, your love and memory will stay with me, woven into my heart. I’ll miss you more than words can express. I’ll carry our laughter close, along with all the little moments that made life beautiful. I will try to keep the love alive in our family as you would have wanted. I promise to take care of mummy, keeping you in my heart for the rest of my life and passing that love on to everyone I meet. You always wanted a beautiful photo of yourself displayed in our mandirs, and I hope you’d approve of the one we chose. This is how I’ll remember you—graceful, ever-smiling and radiant, a woman whose beauty only deepened with time. To me, you were the most beautiful woman in the world.

Goodbye, Nani. I’ll see you on the other side. Save some ice cream for me.

As we set the stage on the college grounds, students gathered, curiosity piqued. The air was thick with anticipation, yet a strange calm settled over us. This wasn’t just another college event; it felt heavier, deeper. I knew the stories Team Bedaari was about to tell weren’t just performances—they were reflections of reality, experiences lived by so many women. I had the solemn task of setting the scene before the performance to the audience. Having witnessed the play beforehand, I was aware of its emotional weight, though I could not predict how it would be received.

The first story in the Nukkad Natak was about a girl with dreams of studying, a girl who believed education was her path to freedom. But ‘men’ or society—rooted in age-old beliefs—dismissed her ambitions, accusing women like her of causing societal imbalance. They said women should not dream so boldly; they should stay within the confines of what was deemed “acceptable.”

The second story was harsher, more brutal. It depicted a woman who dared to reject a marriage proposal because she wanted more from life—more than settling down, more than what was expected of her. For her defiance, she was raped. Punishment for wanting more and for daring to reject a man, hurting his ego. The performance was raw, unsettling. When the actor portraying the victim screamed as the crime was committed, the sound reverberated through the air, sharp and piercing, cutting through the silence like a blade.

This moment felt like a mirror to everything I’ve experienced, everything we’ve all lived through. The truth is, every woman I know has her own story of harassment or fear whispered in friend groups. The fear is always there, lurking in the back of our minds, woven into our daily routines. Why should we have to constantly look over our shoulders just for existing? Why do we have to be afraid of our own streets after the sun sets?

Two weeks ago, the horrifying rape and murder of a medical student at Kolkata's RG Kar Medical College reignited these questions. It’s not that we didn’t know this brutality existed—every headline seems to serve as a grim reminder. But the pain of each new case feels like a fresh wound. It stirs something deep inside, a mixture of grief and fury that bubbles up every time I hear another story like hers.

That day, as we stood in silence through the performance, I thought back to Nirbhaya. I was only eight when it happened, but I still remember the unease that rippled through my family, through the news, through the country. Years later as I was older, the Hyderabad case hit me even harder, not just because of the brutality, but because of the discourse that followed. The same tired questions are asked: "Why was she out so late? Why didn’t she call for help?" The suspects were killed in an encounter—reflecting a request put out every time headlines are made, ‘hang the rapists’. Some called it justice, others questioned whether it was just another political move. But to me, none of it felt like true justice. It didn’t change the fact that women are still not safe. Not safe, not just from violence but from judgement and blame for merely existing and exercising the rights provided to us.

The victim is blamed, over and over again, as if she brought this upon herself. But the truth is, no woman asks for this. No dress, no choice, no time of day justifies rape. Not just rape, but any form of abuse, misconduct or harassment. It’s infuriating to watch society point fingers at victims while excusing male violence as nothing more than “natural urges”, “boys will be boys.” This system, this culture, seems more intent on controlling us than protecting us. Moreover, society often refuses to acknowledge the gravest injustices when they occur within the family, from our ‘own’. Denying the very existence of marital rape as if a woman’s fate is sealed by her marriage. In truth, a woman’s fate is sealed from the moment she is born into a world that continually diminishes her worth.

The harsh reality we face is that true change remains elusive. Many are unwilling to confront this truth, let alone seek to alter the status quo. Headlines may shift, faces may change, but the underlying fear remains constant. We live in a world where any one of us could be next, and yet society continues to find ways to make the blame seem unclear. But for us, the truth is glaringly obvious: we are not free.

When the performance ended, there was a moment of stunned silence. It felt as though time had stopped. Tears streamed down the faces of some of my peers, others stood frozen, grappling with the discomfort these stories had unearthed. The weight of what we had just witnessed settled over us like a heavy fog. But in that silence, something else began to stir—anger, determination, the need to act. I felt it as I returned to the microphone, trying to articulate the pain and anger the performance had evoked.

The rally was next, and without many words, we began to organize. Black clothes, placards, and posters materialized in our hands as we marched toward the streets. One by one, people joined in, even those who didn’t plan to join the rally. The faculty, who had been watching from the sidelines, stood with us. More and more students poured in, inspired by what they had seen. The group grew into a sea of 1,500—a silent force moving through the streets of Begumpet.

As we marched, the only sounds were the soft shuffling of feet and the occasional rustle of paper as our placards shifted in the wind. The silence was deliberate, more powerful than any shouting or chanting could have been. It wasn’t the absence of noise, but rather a statement—a refusal to be drowned out, to be silenced any longer. This wasn’t just a protest; it was an assertion of our collective strength. Though our initial silence was a powerful statement, expressing our collective frustration and determination, a few chants emerged later. These chants to me symbolized our growing impatience and frustration at being silent for so long.

The placards we carried bore bold messages. They were simple, but the impact was undeniable. As we walked, people stopped to watch. We were no longer willing to be quiet about the violence and fear that women experience daily. Our silence was not submission; it was power. And in that power, we found unity.

Our rally wasn’t just about this recent tragedy. It wasn’t just for the victims whose names we’ve come to know through headlines. It was for all of us who navigate this world with caution, who dream of a day when we won’t have to carry this fear. Our silence was deliberate. It wasn’t weakness—it was a powerful statement. We were holding space for the pain we’ve all felt, for the injustices we’ve witnessed and endured. We were demanding accountability—not just for the rapists and abusers, but for a society that allows this to continue unchecked.

As the rally came to a close, I knew we had made our voices heard, even without uttering a single word, it was for us to believe. But I also knew that this fight wasn’t over. It’s never just one protest, one rally, or one performance that brings about change. It’s a continuous battle—one we will keep fighting until our silence can truly transform into the freedom we all deserve.

And as we dispersed, I hoped that our silence wouldn’t be forgotten. I hoped that the strength we carried through the streets that day would resonate long after the posters were taken down. Because we’ve been silent for too long, and it’s time to reclaim our space—our rights, our dignity. This fight belongs to us, and we will not back down.

My journey with cricket began in 2016. Since then, I have been captivated by tales of India's legendary victories: the 2011 World Cup, the 2007 T20 World Cup, the 2013 Champions Trophy, and, of course, the iconic 1983 World Cup win. Yet, I wasn't there to experience the joy of watching my team lift those trophies. Instead, I've been a fan during some of the most challenging times for Indian cricket.

Since 2016, I've endured the heartbreaks of the 2016 T20 World Cup loss, the 2017 Champions Trophy defeat, the 2019 World Cup semi-final exit, the 2022 T20 World Cup semi-final loss, the World Test Championship final disappointment, and the agonizing 2023 World Cup final. Each defeat has been a bitter pill to swallow, making India's dominance in bilateral series all the more frustrating. I even wrote about the Indian cricket woes last year, expressing the feeling of burnout due to the dearth of trophies and the excruciating dry run.

You might think this shouldn't matter, right? It doesn't make sense from a daily life standpoint. We all have our to-do lists and responsibilities, our exams, assignments, and jobs to focus on. Yet, 11 men playing across the globe command all my attention. I cannot look away. Despite everything else demanding my time and energy, I find myself constantly drawn back to the game. Whether it's the anticipation before a big match or the thrill of a close finish, cricket has a way of captivating me like nothing else. It affects my mood and rules my emotions, holding more power over me than I would ever willingly give to anyone.

My relationship with Indian cricket has been a rollercoaster of emotions. I wrote about my woes regarding Indian cricket exactly a year ago in Stumped!, out of sheer frustration and the feeling of burnout from watching a team I love so deeply fail to clinch the big titles.

It was a year marked by high hopes and crushing disappointments. Each tournament brought renewed hope, but also the familiar fear of another heart-wrenching loss. Yet, despite the repeated setbacks, my passion for the game never wavered. Every victory, no matter how small, rekindled the flame of hope. Every defeat, no matter how crushing, only deepened my resolve. Cricket had become more than just a game to me; it was a source of unending emotional investment.

The 2023 World Cup, in particular, was a significant emotional event. The hopes were sky-high, and with every match, they seemed to soar even higher, only to come crashing down with a devastating loss. The pain of that defeat was so overwhelming that I couldn't even bring myself to write about it. The heartbreak was too fresh, too raw, and the disappointment too profound to put into words. I thought this time would be no different.

The last five overs of the T20 World Cup Final were some of the most anxiety-inducing moments I've experienced. I could barely watch it. When South Africa needed 27 runs in 28 balls, it seemed like a lost cause. Everyone went numb, shoulders dropped, smiles disappeared, and the atmosphere became tense. I didn't want to believe it was slipping away again. Were we about to lose three finals in 12 months? The thought was unbearable. I shut down the Hotstar tab, unable to watch them lose again. Flashbacks of that fateful night against Australia haunted me. I never allowed myself too much hope, and even that was lost. A part of my heart shattered.

Then came the comeback. Nothing will top this. As I had given up, the screams across my neighbourhood will be etched in memory forever. I was stunned trying to understand and realise that these were not groans or disappointment but something I didn’t expect to hear. Hope. As I jumped up to reopen the tab, I saw a replay of Suryakumar Yadav's incredible catch, I knew I would remember it for the rest of my life.

I cried after the win, multiple times. It took me a while to register what had happened. I can't tell you how I randomly started smiling just thinking about it days later, gushing over that moment never wanting to let it go. I have rewatched the game countless times already and discussed it even more.

Cricket evokes a unique fervour in me, a rush of adrenaline and patriotism I never expected to feel. Despite the heartbreaks, my love for the game has only deepened, bringing immense joy and excitement at every level. I am so emotionally charged by this one sport that it often confuses me. Before I realize it, I start an impassioned monologue or dive into a debate about a decision or possibility. I will never understand how cricket managed to grab me so intensely.

One of the most beautiful sights of the entire game was watching these professional men emote and celebrate joyfully. I will always remember the pure joy and tears streaming down my face alone in my room, beside where my Rohit Sharma poster used to be, watching him crumble on the floor.

Rohit Sharma has been my favourite player since the beginning of my cricket journey. During my peak fangirl phase, his posters adorned my walls, and my phone cover bore his image. Although I've moved past those days, my love for him hasn't diminished. The 2024 T20 World Cup victory brought back all the emotional baggage to the forefront. Watching Rohit Sharma, whom I always envisioned as captain, lift the cup felt intensely personal. After years of heartbreak, it was a moment of pure relief and elation. I will remember his hug with Virat Kohli as they said goodbye to this format on such a high note. It was all too much for me, I cried some more. Not just at the moment but as this kickstarts the retirements, the start of a long, bittersweet goodbye to these players we've grown so attached to. These players have been the heart and soul of many, giving us hope and joy. I'm not ready to say goodbye.

So, what’s next? I can now say it with more hope and optimism. With Rahul Dravid's tenure as coach ending on a high note, securing this remarkable title, we are poised to enter a new phase of Indian cricket. This victory feels like a pivotal moment, a fresh start that promises renewed vigour and determination. As Gautam Gambhir takes over the reins, I am rejuvenated and excited, though cautiously optimistic, about what lies ahead. Gambhir’s leadership brings a different flavour, one that might just be the catalyst for the change we've all been yearning for.

The Grade Cricketer, a cricket podcast channel, recently highlighted an essential perspective that resonates deeply with me:

I hope India realizes that it isn’t just a team of champions but a champion team.

As I mentioned in my post a year ago, we harboured legacy players whose individual talents have brought us moments of glory but eventually led to even more frustration as we fell short. Even in our recent triumph, champions like Jasprit Bumrah and Virat Kohli played pivotal roles, their brilliance shining through in critical moments.

Yet, what truly set this victory apart was the cohesion, the unity, and the collective effort of the entire team. It wasn't just the individual heroics that clinched the title; it was the champion team that made the difference, Shivam Dube’s underrated contribution, Arshdeep Singh’s brave bowling, and SKY’s catch. Each player, whether a seasoned veteran or a rising star, contributed to the success in a unique way.

If this is the direction India is heading, I see great hope. Maybe this was the final key to unlocking India's true potential.

Let’s hope they take free-hit, a chance without limitation and not run themselves out. Rather like Virat Kohli in India vs Pakistan in 2022 calling out the no-ball, take the free hit, and run despite being stumped, to victory!

From Stumped! to Free Hit! in one year. That’s sport for you!

Gratefully,

Happy and Hopeful fan!

Completing my 6-week internship at NDTV over the summer and starting my final year of undergrad has prompted me to take stock, not just for you all, my readers but for myself as well. This platform has been more than an outlet for sharing experiences; it's been a canvas for exploring my emotions and navigating the questions that weigh heavily on a young adult like myself. Writing it out makes my heart feel much lighter.

In my previous posts, I shared the excitement of my first-ever on-air story at NDTV and my internship with them, an honour I deeply cherish. However, this milestone has also stirred and bubbled to the surface some complex feelings about this curious and confusing journey of adulthood. Let’s unpack that now, shall we?

As I enter this pivotal final year of undergrad, I'm torn between satisfaction and a lingering sense of dread. The feeling of hilariously stumbling through life with a sense of incompetence while trying to celebrate strides into adulthood forms a perplexing paradox that defines my current existence. I often find myself oscillating between feeling overrated and underrated simultaneously, questioning if it's my own mind playing tricks or if I'm anticipating a bubble burst. This persistent feeling of being lost, coupled with a strong commitment to something undefined, only grows stronger with each passing year.

I used to float, now I just fall down
I used to know but I'm not sure now
What I was made for
What was I made for?

What was I made for? - Barbie Soundtrack

I constantly feel like my upward growth is precarious, as if walking on thin ice or transparent glass, aware of the potential fall beneath. I fear that I will never realise my dreams, or worse realise my dreams, only to learn I wasn’t made for it. It feels like a hollow reassurance when I tell myself everything will be fine—I'm uncertain if it truly will be, and that uncertainty weighs heavily. Somedays, I close my eyes just hoping I can find some button which will fast forward this uncertain time so I can know.

Reflecting on the past three to four years, I recognise that I have achieved more than I ever thought possible. Each milestone was celebrated feverishly, each triumph leaving me with a profound feeling of happiness and joy. These achievements are testaments to my capabilities, suggesting that I might be ready for greater challenges. However, once celebrated, these accomplishments quickly fade into the background, replaced almost immediately by the relentless question I inflict upon myself: "What's next?" This question isn’t just from me but from people around me. Somedays the number of eyes on me, feels threatening. Pushing me to try to outdo the previous thing I did. and stopping me from doing something because the people watching have expectations. While it is quite idealist to say, don’t worry about it or people don’t care. convincing yourself this is hard. I did mention before in my letter to my younger self on my birthday that -

It holds true still but sometimes it becomes difficult to see hope in it. Is this the essence of adulthood? The paradox of trying to live up to my own advice while managing diminishing enjoyment of accomplishments?

The journey to find purpose and fulfilment continues, with all its complexities and contradictions. It is a journey marked by moments of clarity and confusion, profound insights and frustrating setbacks. I wonder if my increasingly cynical view of life stems from having dreams that are too grand or if I am simply the harshest critic of my own soul. Perhaps, I am the only one who can truly peer inside and see myself for who I am. This constant self-reflection and doubt are both burdens and beacons, guiding me through the uncertainty of life. They force me to confront my deepest fears and insecurities, pushing me to question my worth and the validity of my aspirations. However, this challenge becomes difficult to overcome and doubt takes over.

It's not just uncertainty that haunts me; I'm stuck in my ways, wanting everything while clinging to my comfort zone. Many of my ideas die with my daydreams because I am too comfortable to realize them. Even within this comfort, I sometimes feel like I cannot afford to have a bad day. This fear has often stunned me and held me back. I have been overwhelmed by the strides I make, which, rather than grounding me, seem to add to my sense of instability, making me question if I am cut out for it.

The quote "The world is a stage" was once thrilling, but now it’s a stage with blinding floodlights and a tightrope, under scrutiny from more eyes than I'd like. I see a trampoline below, meant to bounce me back, yet fear grips me as I hesitate to leap.

Some days, the trampoline seems transparent which makes the leap that much more terrifying. What I forget is that my trampoline, my comfort zone is also my strength and my gift—it allows me to be myself and venture beyond its borders when I feel ready.

In these moments of distress or rather uncertainty, I also have the acute awareness that life is less about finding definitive answers and more about navigating a series of ever-evolving questions. The pursuit of purpose is not a linear path but a winding road filled with unexpected turns and detours. It requires a delicate balance of ambition and acceptance, of striving for greatness while embracing the imperfections and uncertainties that come with it. I am aware, yet some days I need a reminder thus this post. It is for those days, I need that reminder.

As I peer into the future, I'm both hopeful and apprehensive. Standing on the brink of leaving the comfortable bubble of academia to find my own way, the feeling of being "hilariously incompetent" may never fully dissipate. Yet, I want to harness this very feeling to drive me forward, to keep seeking and striving. Perhaps this feeling is the key—the desire to understand and grow, never becoming too comfortable. Ultimately, it's the journey, with its highs and lows, that shapes who we are and who we become. Perhaps true success lies not just in the accomplishments themselves, but also in the courage to pursue them despite the doubts and fears that accompany us along the way.

PS: Have you had moments like this too? Please share your experiences, advice, or thoughts as well. I would love some shared experiences to help me through my own experience of coming into adulthood. Also, if you are a young person with questions, do ask them so maybe the adults can drop some advice. I realize the power of the community I have here, as there are people from a variety of age groups. So let’s help each other out.

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As I was checking my Substack, I realised there are 600 subscribers! Wow! That’s surreal. Maybe, (just maybe), I will start being more regular now.

However, you should know that the reason for my irregularity in the last two months was my internship over the summer. I was working as an intern with NDTV, and you can read about my first on-air story here.

This internship with NDTV was transformative, especially since this year's parliamentary elections marked my debut as an eligible voter in the national context. For the first time, I had the opportunity to actively participate in the democratic process while gaining a deeper understanding of the political climate of our country.

Last November, I wrote about my experience voting for the first time in the Telangana state assembly elections. I took part in the India Today Round Table on Telangana Elections, which made me more in touch with politics and helped me vote as responsibly as I could. That was the start of my interest in the intersection of politics and media. After I visited Sri Lanka for the Youth Forum Leadership Summit inspired by other young leaders, I reached out to Mrs. Uma Sudhir, the executive editor of the South Indian division of NDTV whose work I had greatly admired and who I had a pleasure to meet twice before. As a media student and a first-time voter, this internship felt like the perfect combination to appreciate and contribute to a news channel fully. It was once in 5 years, when the elections occurred and what better time for a college student and first-time voter for me to have this experience because I truly think I wouldn’t otherwise. Fortunately for me, Mrs. Uma Sudhir was kind enough to provide me with the opportunity. It allowed me to see the election process from both the perspective of a citizen and a budding journalist. Studying TV production in college last semester, and making our own news bulletin only sparked my interest, making it thrilling to step into the real world of television. This hands-on experience in a newsroom brought the theories and techniques I learned in class to life and also made me realise, that I never truly understood how it works until I applied it in the internship. Mind you, I had written my end semester too by then.

The internship was a fascinating experience. Although I've always been somewhat political, it has never been my primary interest. I followed the news, but not religiously. This has changed. I now feel much more aware of how media functions and its powerful role in shaping public opinion. I am more sensitive to news and current affairs. I make it a point to understand it fully while before I would maybe see it on Instagram.

Seeing firsthand how stories are researched, developed, and broadcasted provided me with a comprehensive understanding of the media landscape. I think a lot of us look at the news when we are younger and imagine holding that microphone and delivering news live. The drama and the tensions of the newsroom depicted in various forms of films are so appealing. The glamour and the high drama of it all was such an appeal for so many people.

Surprisingly, the newsroom was far more grounded and less dramatic than I had anticipated. On-screen, journalists come across as perfect orators, but the meticulous craft and effort behind the scenes often go unnoticed. The skill required to conduct interviews, knowing exactly what to ask and when, is vastly underrated. Observing the off-camera work, I realized just how essential the camera crew's roles are. Their incredible skill often goes unnoticed, yet they possess similar instincts to journalists—an eye for news, a good story, and the ability to convey that story through visuals. In NDTV Hyderabad, the cameraman Nagaraju significantly helped me build confidence. His generosity with his time and patience during my first story was invaluable, offering me more trust and support than I could have ever asked for.

Another grounding experience was meeting people I had only seen on TV or in heated debates. Seeing journalists and politicians as regular humans, away from the cameras, was eye-opening. It was a reminder that there's more to them than their public personas. This insight made them more relatable and provided a new perspective on their work and lives. For instance, watching seasoned journalists prepare for their segments or seeing politicians in candid moments highlighted the immense preparation and thought that goes into public appearances. There's something special about watching this in real life.

Another notable observation was the stark underrepresentation of women in this field and among the audience. Coming from an all-girls college, where I'm constantly surrounded by women, this disparity in the real world was even more striking. Fortunately, I had the opportunity to work with an empowered senior woman journalist, which underscored the importance of representation. It is crucial for women to be present in these spaces for their voices to be heard. Women's perspectives on the world are unique and immensely valuable. It’s not just about women; people of all genders should have a platform in the media. The media reflects our society's climate, and its diversity should mirror that of the world we live in.

I gained a deep appreciation for journalists after this experience, yet I realised it's not a path I could pursue long term. The six weeks left me feeling burnt out, even though I was only knee-deep in the news. Still, this period opened my eyes to the profound impact media has on public discourse. However, it was disheartening to witness the clear biases and personal interests that often taint news coverage. As an enthusiast of media, I find the declining standards of news channels concerning.

In the world of journalism, while the error of omission is sometimes unavoidable, the error of commission is unacceptable. Providing half-baked information is detrimental, especially for news organizations that understand the power they hold in shaping public discourse. As the fourth pillar of democracy, news outlets must uphold their responsibility to deliver complete and accurate information. Failing to do so undermines their integrity and the public's trust, leading to misinformation and a misinformed populace. News organizations must commit to thorough fact-checking and comprehensive reporting, ensuring they present a full picture rather than fragments of the truth.

I previously discussed the importance of objectivity in journalism in my Grey Matters newsletter, and this experience has only reinforced that belief.

This internship was a transformative experience for me. I spent most of my time absorbing information, often as a quiet observer, watching, learning, and trying to stay ahead of the curve. I asked countless questions, no matter how basic because I needed to understand the process fully. My media consumption habits shifted drastically; I spent less time on TV shows and YouTube and more on watching news channels for hours on end. Immersing myself in the news was both enlightening and overwhelming. The constant influx of new information was challenging to keep up with, but it was also a crash course in how news is reported and the importance of critical thinking and discernment in journalism. Fact-checking became second nature, as did staying updated and verifying information with sources. This experience taught me that in the news, timing is everything, and you must adapt quickly. The first half of my internship felt like a blur, a dream I was still waking up from.

The experience was intimidating. I had to unlearn preconceived notions and be open to making more mistakes than I was comfortable with. I hold myself to a high standard, so being thrown into the deep end was tough. I wasn't sure of my footing, but being at NDTV, a renowned news channel, gave me confidence. I still can't believe it when I talk about it. I took a leap, reached out, and before I knew it, I was over.

I've always known that a permanent career in a news organization might not be for me. However, this experience as a young voter, media student, and aspiring storyteller has been invaluable. It has opened my eyes to the complexities and responsibilities of journalism and its profound impact on society. This journey has been about growth, both personally and professionally, and it’s an experience I’ll always cherish.

Share your thoughts and perceptions about news and journalism in today's world. I would love to hear your comments, thoughts, and ideas about this newsletter in the comments below.

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