What do you love now, that you hated when you were younger?
Monsoons: The Watery Reckoning
I remember standing at the window pane,
Rain lashing against the glass like tiny fists,
Complaining how the sky had ruined plans,
How puddles meant cancelled cricket matches,
How humidity made my hair
a disaster,
How my mother’s cooking smelled different in damp air.
“Monsoon is boring,” I’d declare with teenage angst,
Preferring, in fact, sun and blue skies and organized schedules.
Now, thirty-two years and countless monsoons later,
I find myself dancing in balcony showers,
My bare feet sinking into familiar mud,
The scent of wet earth awakening something primal,
Something that smells like home before I knew what home meant.
The chaos of traffic on waterlogged roads,
The chai vendors, in fact, setting up
temporary stalls,
The birds singing louder after cleansing rains,
The way in fact, Mumbai transforms into its most authentic self,
Peeling away the gloss of corporate pretense,
Revealing the beating heart beneath.
The same rain that once imprisoned me in boredom,
Now, in fact, sets my soul free in rhythmic patterns,
Each drop a memory of childhood summers,
Each thunderclap a reminder of
nature’s power,
Each rainbow a promise that storms pass,
That darkness gives way to light,
That what we resist eventually teaches us.
Indian Railways: The Rolling Metaphor
As a child, the railway station was, in fact, torture,
Crowds pushing like waves in a human ocean,
Noise that made my ears ring for hours,
Delays that stretched patience into eternity,
The smell of diesel mixed with chai spices,
The constant announcements in languages I barely understood,
My parents dragging me through chaos to catch trains,
My only desire being home and comfort and predictability.
“Why do we always travel by train?” I’d whine,
“Why not, in fact, fly like
normal people?
Why sit for hours when planes exist?”
My father would sigh and explain the poetry
Of Indian Railways, the lifeline of a nation,
But I heard only inconvenience and discomfort.
Now, sitting by the window of the Rajdhani Express,
Watching India blur past in a watercolor dream,
I understand, in fact, what my father tried to teach me.
The railway station is no longer a gateway to torture,
But a portal to endless stories,
Every passenger a character in someone’s life journey,
Every delay a gift of
unexpected discovery,
Every crowded compartment a microcosm of India itself.
The chai-wallah with his kettle and cups,
The student with headphones
buried in textbooks,
The elderly couple holding hands across generations,
The businessman, in fact, on important
phone calls,
The family sharing snacks and stories.
I used to hate this chaos,
Now I love it as proof that we are all connected,
That we are all moving toward something,
That the journey matters more than the destination.
Street Food: The Spicy Redemption
As a child, street food meant danger,
The chaiwallah’s dirty hands, the bhelpuri seller’s flies,
The golgappe water
that could make you sick,
The jalebi oil that splattered like fireworks,
My mother’s warnings about “eating from the street”
Echoing in my mind whenever hunger called.
I preferred the sanitized world of packaged foods,
The predictability of McDonald’s and Pizza Hut,
The safety of knowing exactly
what I was eating,
The horror stories of food poisoning and stomach bugs
Made me allergic to anything not cooked in my kitchen.
“Street food is for poor people,” I’d declare,
“It’s unhygienic and dangerous and common,”
My privileged upbringing teaching me to reject
Anything that smelled of authenticity and tradition,
Anything that looked like something my mother would forbid.
Now, standing at the same street corner where I once recoiled,
Watching the master chef manipulate his thali with practiced hands,
The way he arranges sev and chutney with artistic precision,
The steam rising from
fresh-made dosas,
The sound of cutting boards rhythmically chopping vegetables,
I understand what my mother couldn’t explain then.
The street food vendor is not uncouth or dangerous,
But an artist of his craft,
A storyteller serving generations of recipes,
A cultural ambassador
preserving traditions,
A philosopher teaching patience through preparation.
What I once hated as contamination,
Now I recognize as character,
What I once rejected as unsafe,
Now I embrace as authentic,
What I once feared as common,
Now I cherish as communal.
Arranged Marriages: The Cultural Reversal
As a teenager, the concept of arranged marriage was abhorrent,
My friends and I would gather and mock the idea,
“How can parents choose your life partner?
How can tradition override
personal choice?
How can love survive without initial attraction?
How can families decide something so personal?”
We celebrated love marriages as romantic and modern,
Western movies and novels teaching us that true love
Was about spontaneous connection and individual choice,
That family involvement was interference,
That arranged marriages
were essentially transactions,
That love had to be discovered, not arranged.
“I’ll never let my parents choose my spouse,”
I declared with teenage certainty,
“My heart will decide, not tradition or obligation.”
My generation represented progress and freedom,
Breaking chains of cultural expectations,
Embracing Western concepts of individual autonomy.
Now, watching my cousin’s arranged marriage unfold with grace,
Seeing how two families became one through ceremony and celebration,
Witnessing the respect between my uncle and aunt who met through their parents,
Observing the wisdom in choosing compatibility over chemistry,
I understand the elegance of arrangements made with love,
The beauty of families investing in their children’s happiness,
The depth of connections built on shared values and understanding.
What I once rejected as patriarchal control,
Now I recognize as familial support,
What I once mocked as lack of romance,
Now I appreciate as cultural wisdom,
What I once feared as loss of autonomy,
Now I understand as expansion of possibility.
Bureaucracy: The Beautiful Maze
As a young professional, Indian bureaucracy was my nightmare,
The endless paperwork that turned simple tasks into epic quests,
The “system” that worked in
mysterious ways known only to insiders,
The files that moved like glaciers through administrative corridors,
The need to know “someone”
to get anything done,
The frustration of explaining the same thing to different officials.
I dreamed of working in countries with streamlined processes,
Where efficiency trumped tradition,
Where paperwork was
digital and instantaneous,
Where the system was designed to serve citizens,
Where rules were applied uniformly and fairly.
“India will never progress with this bureaucracy,”
I’d complain to colleagues over chai breaks,
“We need to modernize, streamline, eliminate corruption,
Create systems worthy of a global economy.”
Now, sitting in government offices and watching the dance unfold,
Seeing how bureaucracy, for all its flaws,
Provides employment to millions,
Creates spaces for human interaction and negotiation,
Allows for flexibility that rigid systems lack,
I understand the poetry in the complexity.
The file that takes weeks to move through departments,
The official who remembers
your name and family details,
The system that makes exceptions for genuine circumstances,
The way bureaucracy forces
patience and persistence,
The human connection that emerges from procedural delays,
The stories that emerge from waiting rooms and corridors.
What I once hated as inefficiency,
Now I recognize as humanization,
What I once rejected as corruption,
Now I understand as system adaptation,
What I once feared as obstruction,
Now I see as opportunity for relationship-building.
Monsoon Weddings: The Atmospheric Revelation
As a child, monsoon weddings were disasters,
The rain ruining decorations,
The guests arriving
late and wet,
The outdoor ceremonies becoming indoor emergencies,
The photographer
struggling with equipment in humidity,
The cake melting and flowers wilting,
My teenage self complaining how romantic weddings should be sunny and perfect.
“Weddings need sunshine and blue skies,” I’d insist,
“Monsoons are depressing and inconvenient,
They create problems and stress and chaos,
What kind of romantic moment involves running for cover?”
My friends and I would plan imaginary weddings in perfect weather,
Ignoring the realities of Indian seasons.
Now, planning my own wedding during monsoon season,
Watching the rain create a magical atmosphere,
The droplets on windows creating natural ambient lighting,
The sound of rain
providing background music,
The guests arriving with umbrellas and smiles,
The way the garden transforms into a watercolor painting,
I understand why our ancestors celebrated monsoons as sacred times.
The monsoon wedding teaches us that love, like life,
Doesn’t always go according to plan,
That beauty can emerge from chaos,
That romance thrives in
unexpected circumstances,
That perfection is overrated and imperfection is human,
That sometimes the best moments happen when things go wrong.
What I once rejected as inconvenience,
Now I embrace as character,
What I once feared as disaster,
Now I recognize as destiny,
What I once mocked as unromantic,
Now I understand as uniquely beautiful.
Conclusion: The Circular Journey
Love now, hated when I was younger,
This reversal of affections teaches me something profound,
About growth and wisdom and the passage of time,
About how experiences reshape
our understanding,
About how what once seemed like obstacles become blessings,
About how the things we resist eventually teach us.
The monsoons that once bored me now inspire poetry,
The railways that
once frustrated me now connect me,
The street food that once frightened me now nourishes my soul,
The bureaucracy that
once enraged me now teaches patience,
The arranged marriages that once offended me now inspire admiration,
The monsoon weddings that once disappointed me now enchant me.
Time is not linear but circular,
What we push away eventually returns transformed,
Our younger selves not wrong but incomplete,
Our current preferences not right but evolved,
The journey from hate to love not a contradiction but growth,
The reversal of affections not confusion but wisdom.
Perhaps the greatest love is for the person we were,
The one who hated what we now cherish,
Who rejected what we now embrace,
Who couldn’t see
what our eyes now recognize,
Who needed the journey through hate to arrive at love.
Love now, hated when I was younger,
This is the lesson of growing up in India,
This is the poetry of
reversing our preferences,
This is the beauty of learning to love what once seemed unlovable,
This is the wisdom of understanding that our journey from hate to love
is as important as the destination itself.
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