Yesterday reminded me that the world does not revolve around me. I am not the centre of the universe. Every person I shared a table with at a family dinner was the protagonist of a story I could only glimpse. Each was the hero of a story I will never fully know, the central character in their own unspoken drama, quietly surviving something no one else knows about, showing up anyway.
A cousin with beautiful, luscious hair recounted her daughter’s first period. Another spoke about buying an iPhone 17 Pro for her teenage son. Someone else sighed that her children no longer hesitated to answer back. One cousin described his teenage son heading straight from Mumbai airport to a party. Yet another laughed about regularly receiving phone calls from parents because her son had been in another brawl. And there I was, fretting over my three-year-old daughter’s anxiety around meeting new people, so overwhelmed that she could barely bring herself to step inside the restaurant where all of us cousins had gathered for dinner.
Someone has left the security of a 9-to-5 job to build a business from the ground up, someone else, worn down by the daily grind, continues to show up because they must. One finds solace in spirituality; another derives meaning from material success. One embraces creativity and eccentricity; another is captivated by AI. Someone relentlessly pursues ambition, while someone else walks the quieter path to contentment. One is short, another tall. One is conventionally beautiful; the other, unconventionally charming. Someone thrives in the spotlight; someone slips into the background.
There are all kinds of beautiful people and all kinds of beautiful lives. We are on different trajectories. Timelines.
Parenting, politics, family, work, Botoplexx, hair colour, travel plans, holiday destinations – the conversation flowed effortlessly. We spoke about everything and nothing.
I don’t really know what their lives feel like from the inside. I don’t know what they think about when they are alone with their thoughts in the pitch black of night. I don’t know about the memories that still tug at the edges of their minds or the ones that haunt them until they drop dead. The private joys they carry in their pockets like lucky charms and the hidden sorrows tucked behind the smiles. I know nothing.
The realisation that I’ll never know most people deeply, fully, is achingly beautiful. The little hopes, beliefs and rituals that hold them together. The words they say out loud in the shower. Whether they sleep with one leg out of the blanket, how they feel about the first monsoon rain, who first taught them to forgive, or whether they can sit quietly with themselves long enough for something within them to crack open. I will never know it all.
All complex lives crashing into each other for a brief moment – in restaurants, bookstores, on sidewalks, in elevators, at the pharmacy. We only skim the surface; we are icebergs in business casuals, midis, capes and kaftans. We see the tip – the smile, the job title, the mansion, the car, the school, the happy voices, the carefully curated life. Beneath the surface lies everything I will never know: the burdens people carry, the mistakes they regret, the dreams they still nurture, the anxieties and insecurities that haunt them at 3. a.m., the monsters in their closet.
I don’t really know anyone. Not my cousins, not my childhood friends, not the barista who made my cappuccino, not my nanny, not the doorman who greets me every morning, not my spouse, not my daughter, not even my own sibling. My own blood. My brother and I come from the same womb, yet I’ll never fully know him. My brother has an entire interior world I’ll never fully access. He has his own thoughts looping in the shower. Memories that surface without warning, quiet triumphs, private griefs, and conversations that shaped him when I wasn’t there. We share the same beginnings, and yet, he has created a life I know nothing about.
We know people, sometimes deeply, yet not entirely. Even my best friend who has seen me ugly-cry and eat cake out of a mug – I don’t really know what her life feels like from the inside. There’s something sacred in not knowing and still caring anyway.
Tomorrow I am going to hold eye contact with the barista who serves me for half a second longer. I’ll hold space for the stranger in the mall elevator I’ll never see again. I don’t know you, but I see that you are here. And that is enough.
Sonder: the realization that each random passerby is living a life as complex as your own.
Every so often, I glanced towards the hotel lobby where my daughter sat. I even tried to lure her into joining us with the promise of a chocolate pastry and fries. But she remained unsettled, clinging to my nanny, unable to warm up to the crowd.
Am I falling behind if my daughter refuses to acknowledge my cousins and prefers to play with the nanny instead? Am I falling behind if my daughter colours outside the lines while a boy colours gently, beautifully, within the boundaries and politely asks for more orange juice? Am I falling behind if my daughter has a full-blown meltdown in public? Does it all mean I am failing as a mother?
A cousin remarked that Vika was a child prodigy, and I was deeply invested in her. But can I even help her regulate her emotions? Or is it preposterous to expect a three-year-old to behave like an adult when her nervous system is still under construction? At 42, am I able to handle my own emotions? I cringe at the thought. I am mortified. Ashamed.
“Her brain is still building the infrastructure. It’s coming. It’s coming.” I recite to myself like a holy mantra every night.
Some kids are reactive to stimulation, quicker to move and slower to settle. Throwing, crashing, climbing, screaming. Maybe that’s exactly how their brains develop. Maybe they are wired for exploration, movement and hustle.
I sometimes feel guilty about rushing my daughter into academic learning knowing fully well that the milestones overlap eventually. I need to let her be. And I too need to simply be. To loosen up my grip.
We talked about parenting, skincare, fitness, travel plans – the conversation flowed organically. We spoke about everything and nothing. We skimmed the surface. We are icebergs in business casuals, midis, capes and kaftans.
I felt a sudden wave of sonder – everyone I meet is living a life as intricate and significant as my own. We all carry an archive of memories, private joys and griefs, unspoken words, unfinished conversations, quiet triumphs and invisible trials.
