The impermanence of change

August was loud and busy; this month has been slow and deliberate. The days stretch longer, maybe because the mind moves slower when you are in between things.

I have not read in weeks. The wardrobe still waits to be cleared. Even the old light fixtures meant for the loft are sitting by the corner. It is strange how life pauses sometimes, not because nothing is happening, but because something inside you is quietly shifting.

Lately, I have been asking myself where I stand, and if all lull periods are meant to feel this uncertain. There is always that small voice wondering how I ended up here, and what is supposed to come next.

In late September, we decided something had to change. We took a small pilgrimage, renovated parts of the house, and in the middle of all that, I woke up one morning and decided to give away my books. Maybe it was an impulse, or maybe I was trying to make space for what is to come. Someone once told me, “You can only fill the spaces you empty.”

I have always been a hoarder of things, of feelings, of memories. Books, clothes, gift wrappers, tickets, bottles, bills, and anything that carried a moment. I believed these things kept my past alive. But the truth is, sometimes they keep you from moving forward.

So I decluttered. I gave away my books, my clothes, my shoes. The space felt lighter and freer; it felt like I could breathe again. We rearranged shelves, tried new coffee, played with lighting, and made our home look a little more open. It was not just the house changing; it was us.

And somewhere along the way, I decided to write again. To stop running and simply breathe. To ask myself, if half my life has already been lived, what do I want to fill the rest with?

We have never been deeply religious, but this year we decided to celebrate every festival, not out of faith but out of fondness. Maybe to keep a small piece of childhood alive. The scent of incense, morning baths, the hum of laughter while dressing up, it all stitched something warm into the day.

Diwali has always been my favourite, that soft chaos of lights, gifts, food, and family. It is the season that feels most alive. So this year, we turned everything upside down: a new home, new habits, a new rhythm. We even made a small pact to eat at home for five days and earn our one meal outside.

We used to wake up at 530 AM, our cousins used to gather at home, parents used to put nelangu in the morning and smear our heads with oil. We had very few bathrooms and hence showering in sequence would always be a debate. And then our sumptuous breakfast, the oldies will gather to watch Pattimandram, the moms will feed us food because we would be bursting crackers and running around. Later in the noon, we would gather to sit and watch one superstar movie and wait for the other cousins to join us for the evening celebrations. But today, we video call and wish everyone for Diwali, birthdays.. what not. It reminded me of the old days when going to a mall or a food court felt like an event. Our parents would order a big car, we cousins wore our best also matching clothes, and the day felt endless. There used to be random banter. Today, we rarely go out like that. Convenience has quietly replaced excitement. But one evening, we did it again. We visited the mall, drank juice, packed food, came home, and watched a movie. It felt good, like rediscovering a forgotten version of joy.

I remember how we all used to gather without having alarms to remind us of meeting with friends, or doing a certain chore. We used to call each others landlines, parents being pissed and taking the liberty to scold their own kids and also us if we were upto no good. There were no formalities, just dropping into each others house, and be offered food and eat whatever was available back then.

Sometimes I wonder what will feel special ten years from now. Back then, buying a TV was a celebration. We would gather around, watch movies, laugh, and fall asleep together. Now, plans can be cancelled with a single text. Growth gives us freedom but takes away a certain closeness.

That is the paradox of growing up, is it not? Growth can mean becoming distant just as much as it can mean growing closer. We all change, just not always in the same direction. Friends evolve, families shift, people we once knew start to feel unfamiliar, and it is not wrong. It is simply how time works. We grow into different shapes, carrying the same memories but seeing them from new angles.

I used to think growth was a straight line, forward and upward. But now I think it is more like a series of overlapping waves. You can rise and fall at the same time. You can lose something and gain something else. You can grow away from one version of yourself and closer to another.

Change is unsettling because it asks you to let go before you know what comes next. But maybe that is how life keeps moving, quietly and persistently, asking us to make room for what is waiting to arrive.