Change





As I started writing this article, I begin by wondering if the headline even works.

'Change' means so many different things to so many people. Could a headline BE more generic? *says the previous line in Chandler’s tone* But then again, I don’t really have a point to this article. So, if you aim to gain something spectacular towards the end, please retreat before you embark on this journey.


Let me begin by telling you why I specifically started writing about change as a concept. I was recently discussing writing with a colleague - friend of mine & found myself looking at some of the old blogs I had written. Mind boggling. Some of the stuff I have written down in my diaries, the stuff written in the older articles, I read furiously, almost slightly dazed and a little heady. Who IS this person? Did I actually write any of that or had I outsourced the content at some point? It baffles me how much of the stuff that I have written doesn’t feel like I wrote it anymore. How much of the stuff I read makes me want to bury myself in a tiny hole and not come out. Not that this is a day’s change. I am pretty sure if I look back at this very article 10 years down the line, heck even 3 years down, I might feel the same.


So where did those thoughts go? Or did I take them out like in Harry Potter & simply tuck them away in a tiny bottle? Change, internal change, in any individual, amazes me. Where does that old person go? Did we grow or were we always this way? At one point does an individual change to a degree that the person they were before seems like a foreigner, someone you could be friends with (maybe not even that) but couldn't possibly be you.




I remember hating mustard all my life. I grew up wondering what was so great about that yellowish sauce with specks of black in it. It tasted weird, smelt weird and dirtied most clothes. Because who doesn’t spill the sauce from a subway sandwich? If you said ‘I don’t’ to this, I am sorry but the best moments of your childhood did not happen :P So, my detachment to mustard grew. I ordered a subway, almost screaming at the subway guy to not touch mustard. I saw hordes of people lapping it up like it was mayonnaise. The nerve. I saw it being delivered alongside ketchup. Can you believe it? Accompanying the prestigious ketchup with fries? I mean who dare give it that prestige. But, I never questioned the place mustard had in my life. It had none.


As I sat that day after reading through these articles and wondering what had hit me in the head to have written certain things a certain way, I begin to think if there had been more changes which I never noticed. Changes I never paid heed to, things one thinks will never change but they do. You know how some things change and you are ready for it, some changes come like a shock, they hit you like a volcano? Not that I know how that feels but you get the drift. I wondered how my friends and family had changed. How our relationships have and could change. It can be as scary as suddenly tasting that mustard sauce and realizing you actually love it. God no, I couldn’t deal with that. Or so I thought.

So, I went to the kitchen and pulled up a bottle of English mustard from my refrigerator. It stood there just as yellow, just as specky (if that’s even a word) and every bit eerie. What if I did like it? How do I explain to myself this transition? How do I justify the entire journey I went on with this sauce in my own head since the time I first saw it?


But then it happened. I liked it. I tried to put the sauce on a piece of bread with some veggies and cheese, just to be sure. Just to seal that inkling of doubt I had running. And I loved it even more.


I don’t think I can ever love mustard the way I have always adored pesto.


But it’s a change nevertheless.


A pungent one.