The Devil is in the Dee-tails :)

I turn 23 today, and instead of feeling older, I feel… watched.

I smile, because she’s right. Some rings left, some stayed. Turns out growing up is mostly about figuring out what you hold on to without needing a full explanation.

Then she leans back and asks, very plainly, “Okay. Batao. What do you actually do?”

I tell her I work in impact now. That I’ve worked in the judiciary. Trying to understand how systems decide who gets heard and who doesn’t. That now I work in education, with primary school kids, thinking about reading, learning, and those early moments where someone realises, oh, main samajh sakta hoon duniya ko.

She blinks. Long pause.

“That’s… not space,” she says finally. “What about astrophysics? Space exploration? NASA? We were VERY serious about that.”

She isn’t accusing me. She’s checking if I’ve betrayed something important.

I tell her the truth. That I didn’t stop loving big systems. Bas I stopped believing they had to be far away from people. That courtrooms and classrooms are their own kind of universe even if chaotic, layered, deeply human. That gravity exists there too, just differently. Quietly. In ways that decide people’s lives without ever announcing itself.

She processes this slowly. “Are you sad about it?” she asks. Not dramatically. Just… carefully.

“Nahi,” I say. “Honestly? Surprised hoon. In a good way.”

That seems to calm her. She then asks the most lingering thing she has on her mind – ” Mumma Papa kaise hai?” and my “Mast hai, we are with them abhi.” lights her up. Then she asks the question she’s been holding since she arrived. “Are we still smart?”

I hesitate, because I know what she’s really asking. “People say we are,” I tell her. “But we don’t think about it so much anymore.”

She frowns. “Then what do you think about?”

“Showing up properly,” I say. “Being kind. Doing work that feels meaningful. Surrounding ourselves with people who are smarter than us, because honestly, intelligence isn’t rare, par shayad humility is. Listening bina defensive hue is. Par we’re still learning that. Mushkil raha hai kaafi. Failed a lot at it recently.”

She doesn’t love this answer, but she stores it.

“Do people like you?” she asks next, abruptly.

I smile. “Mostly, yes. People have been very warm.” And even now, I’m surprised by how much that matters. Because at 15, I was constantly scanning rooms, reading silences, assuming people were upset with me if they went quiet. That fear ran my nervous system for years.

She tilts her head. “So you’re not scared all the time anymore?”

“Sometimes,” I admit. “But not constantly. And more importantly, ab apne aap ko trust kar leti hoon. We know that no matter how bad things get, mein khud ke liye khadi rahoongi. That belief alone has carried us through a lot.”

She softens at that. “Did we ever feel like we belong?” she asks, almost reluctantly.

“Yes,” I say immediately. “More than once.”

I tell her about college. The people who felt like home bina zyada effort ke. Late nights that turned into mornings. The feeling of being understood without performing. I tell her about Kochi and how unexpectedly safe it felt, kaise it just made sense. How funny it is that of her three closest friends growing up were, two from there, jaise dil already jaanta tha kuch.

She smiles. “I knew I liked the sound of that city for a reason.”

“But,” I add, because I don’t want to lie, “we also lost some of that belonging. The closest parts. And that’s still something we’re figuring out.”

She doesn’t flinch. She always knew loss was coming. “Did anyone ever choose us?” she asks, straight to the point.

“Yes,” I say. “Deeply. Completely. It was real. It was special. And it showed us what the bar is.”

She exhales, like she’s been holding her breath since morning. “So love isn’t fake.”

“Bilkul nahi,” I say. “But we did spend a long time thinking being useful was the way to be loved. That if we did enough, helped enough, stayed needed, we’d earn our place. Unlearning that has been hard. And freeing.”

She nods slowly. “Are you scared of anything?”

“Haan, losing people. Par bas wohi.” I say. “Specific people. But we’ve lost some we loved most and we survived. That fear doesn’t disappear. Bas you learn you’re stronger than it.”

She looks down at her hands. Pauses. I wonder if we are done and I scared her off from the thought of her future. Then suddenly, lighter, usne poocha, “Did we get the free will I want?”

I laugh. “Oh, fully. You got a tattoo. You lived in different cities. You travelled. You started a blog. You dreamt up very cool ideas.”

She grins, “Obviously.”

“But,” I add, “turns out the best feeling in the world is still when you and mumma agree and everything feels aligned. Itna rebellion shayad chahiye bhi nahi tha.”

She rolls her eyes, but fondly. She asks about mistakes. About alcohol. About intimacy. About things she once swore she’d never do.

I don’t sugarcoat it. I tell her we tried things. Some clumsily. Some bravely. That we still question parts of it. That surviving wasn’t pretty par real tha.

“Do we have our priorities straight?” she asks suddenly, very serious. “Like… month to month?”

I sigh. “Sometimes very much. Sometimes not at all. Anxiety still exists. We drown it in work. We get carried away by ideas and then khud ko present mein kheench ke laate hain.”

She studies me and then says,“You don’t sound very sorted sorted.”

“We’re floating,” I say.

She smirks, “Are we impressive at least?”

I smile. “Maybe. We dress well. People like our music taste. They ask for our opinions. We’re satisfied with our work. Not extraordinary but bahut hi zyaada grateful.”

She nods. “Do we go back to Muscat?” and then I say, “Haan, Mumma Papa didn’t move par lagta hai kaafi ki ek aisa tukda hai yeh of me that I wish everyone who knows me aaj experienced”.

She nudges ki that’s a very small thing which I can tell everyone and I wonder that hmmm….it is that easy. Then, very casually, “What happened to One Direction?”

I laugh. “They didn’t get back together.” She looks genuinely offended.

Finally, the quietest question. “Would you choose this life again?”

“With tweaks,” I say. “But mostly yes.” I tell her about snorkelling on my 23rd birthday. About snow on my 22nd. About loving so many people so deeply it scares me.

She looks at me for a long moment. “Your Hindi is better,” she says. “I know,” I laugh. “Didn’t see that coming either.” Before she leaves, I stop her.

“Sun,” I tell her.

You don’t have to be chosen early. You don’t have to be impressive all the time. You don’t have to get everything right. Bas apni curiosity, apna dil, aur thoda zyada feel karne ki aadat mat chhodna. It all turns out to matter.

She smiles. And for the first time, she believes me.