Confident and loud. Quipping about the podcast I heard or the New Yorker article I read. Assuming every space in conversation is an invitation to tell a story. Every time I go to a party, I decide I will be quiet, measured, polite. But by the time the night is over, I have argued with at least one person. About Elon Musk, politics, the movie Kantara or sexism. On the way back in the car, I will turn to Advaith for confirmation that I am not the problem here. He will continue driving quietly with a smirk.

A few months back, a friend pointed out that I have to stop giving her advice. I don’t have to fill every gap with suggestions, she said. First, I was annoyed. How can a friend fault me for trying to help? Silence, apathy, agreement is that what she wants? But when I stopped being dramatic and sat with the discomfort, I realised that I had spent so much time trying to be the smart one that I did not know how to just listen anymore. Make no assumptions, listen like it is the first time, or wait before a story is over to conclude. Though we had been friends for a long time, I had to start all over again, let her ask, let her tell, let her be.

I was in the 5th standard when I first helped a 7th standard kid cheat in geography. The first time someone called me ‘mature for my age’, I was 15. I was 21 when I gave my brother advice on heartbreak, having gone through zero heartbreaks myself. I was 23 when I fought with my father and insisted he shut down his business because it was keeping us in debt. Most of my life I have been an expert at things I had no business being an expert in.