28

My 28 year old self wants to thwack my 26 year old self for not paying attention when her wiser friends were exchanging bhindi recipes because when you’re far away from home, there are only so many days you can survive by sniffing scraped-clean beef pickle jars or on Kurkure Corn Puffs. On other days, only deep fried bhindi can save your life as you lie in bed watching, on loop, Leslie Knope doing a retake of leasing a house while grooving to Party Rock Anthem.

This same 28 year old self has, with much difficulty, mastered the art of suppressing laughter while watching clichéd potty jokes with very important elder people who have already almost given up on her after waiting and watching her slowly inch her way through breakfast as seasons changed and black holes chewed and spat in stars. But she will still burst out laughing (and scare everyone in a few feet’s vicinity) for reasons known only to her while sitting alone and waiting for long hours at the airport or while travelling without company on Jan Shatabdis.

The 28 year old self finally understands the meaning of collateral damage. The younger self had thought that everyone would finally realize that Top Ramen was the instant noodle we deserved and also because of the strange times we live in, the one that we need right now. But the Maggi ban was never about Maggi alone, was it? Sorry Top Ramen, especially you Curry. You got caught in the crossfire. But things are okay now and we are back together.

But what made turning 28 really special, despite not getting a birthday cake for the first time in my recorded history, was when my chaddi buddy’s daughter pointed at them boobs and said, ‘Paapu!’ Thank you Bewb Gods for deciding to finally bless me after being absent all through high school, college and post graduation.

Bring it on, 29.