Growing up and other things.
On the first day of a new school and class 2 when I was about seven years old, this fantastic teacher of mine, called Miss Jessy, started the first lesson by telling us how coming from class 1 to class 2 was a big deal and that now that all of us girls (convent girls school in small town) had gone from being little girls to slightly older and more responsible and understanding and less little girls. That day I thought, wow, I have grown up and somebody just told me that, it definitely must be true. Oh boy, little did I know. Of course, the fact that I had done my annual crying ritual the previous night — pre-first day at school thing — didn’t count.
When do we grow up? And when do we know? It’s not like you wake up in the Weasleys’ attic on your 17th birthday and you know the Ministry isn’t going to find out every time you use your wand now. That’s some indication at least. Besides, is it really that big a deal?
Plus, memes like
doing the rounds, all the time, who are we kidding really?
So when is it established that you are now a grown adult person? When you have read 143 books? Or when you have watched all 10 seasons of Friends 5 times? Or when you have finished college? Or by Indian standards, the day you are married? Or when you start earning for yourself? Or when you have heard enough music, and gathered all the wisdom movies could give you, and you stop regarding them as a source of wisdom? Or when you take care of the house when mom is sick? Or when you scold your dad for eating too much sugar?
If I had 10 bucks for every time I asked that question, I would be buying ice cream with that money for the person giving me the answer to it for a really long time, every day of the week.
Maybe growing up is about having a conversation with the 50 something cook at your place (she is a blessing), and she says, “Didi, swabhav achha hona chahiye, baki kuch ho na ho.” (If nothing else, a person’s nature should be good). And you nod your head in understanding.
Though that strangely reminds me of a school teacher’s Moral Science class, and a Kissan jam advertisement (mummy ne nahi sikhaya? Shaarrrinnngg). That’s kinda messed up.
Remember when we were in school, tiffins would get opened, put in the centre and the nicest things get finished first? When I see sabzis pooled in during lunch time at the office, it’s pretty much the same, without the exciting things to eat of course. And when music plays at parties, there isn’t much change in our dancing skills, whether it’s our 11th birthday party or the 11th bachelor party we are attending.
So all of us are probably just playing the role of who we think would be a responsible adult. Hah.
One of the biggest trade offs of growing older, which is also I think very simple, is coming to terms with the fact that we are here only for a short time, and that nobody gives more of a rat’s ass about your existence, than they do about next guy. We are all similar microcosms in some sense. All the wonderful things that we wanted to do when we were all grown up, are either not happening or are forgotten, or if they are, they are probably not as fancy as they were in our heads all those years ago. And then there are perfectionists and people with OCD whose life and misery keep running into each other like the traffic police and bike riders, past midnight.
So maybe, growing up is also learning to comprehend and accept sadness, caressing scars and learning to let go. Tough nut, that last bit.
We are nothing more than our stories, feelings and thoughts, just like we were when we were kids. It’s just that the streets we played in, as kids, and the swing hanging from the tree branch, the high park benches, and the big ice cream cone, now look and feel a lot tinier.
Our hands are no longer small enough to be overfilled by those.
