The Dance of Our Twenties
“It’s measuring life not by accomplishments, validation or tokens of likeability, but by the curation of those moments which are so indescribably delightful that they can only be captured in a memory-the ones where photos fall short and words can’t do justice and you simply have to be satisfied that you were there, and you saw it, and you lived it, and it was great.”
This is a photo of me wearing my first Osariya–the Kandyan and national attire of Sri Lanka-draped by the love and kindness of a complete stranger.
Before I got to Sri Lanka, I had a feeling it would be special.
I knew its miles of lakes and kingdoms of mountains, its richness of culture and age-old architecture, its endless forests and ecosystems of wildlife-would have absolutely no difficulty blowing anyone away.
The part I never expected though, was its generosity; the way I'd be treated, the belonging I would feel and the healing it would bring.
I saved up my entire trip to stay in this hotel.
On my first night, the front desk manager, Iresha, was wearing a stunning green Osariya.
I told her how beautiful she looked in it and she blushed and we smiled and she showed me photos of her children.
We spoke in broken English-though not nearly as broken as my Sinhalese-about our families, our favourite foods and films, and she told me to reach out if I ever needed.
In my head, it was just a sweet exchange. But Iresha turned it into so much more.
The next day, she travelled to her mum’s house and brought me a new Osariya crafted with hand-woven batik.
She draped it on me, organised a photoshoot across the hotel and insisted I wear it to the Kandyan culture show that evening so I could feel like a local, like I belonged.
She pinned my hair back, placed stone-studded earrings into my ears and pearls round my neck.
And remembering from our fleeting five-minute conversation that I love spicy food, she brought me a tray of homemade Sri Lankan snacks crafted with the labour and love of her own mother’s hands.
That’s when I realised that, as excited as I was to be on my first solo trip, as desperate as I have been for space and solitude, as much as I have felt such a longing to feel independent and capable and grown up, to prove to myself that I can take care of myself…it felt nice, in that moment, to be mothered.
The other half of this place which will remain etched in my memory is Mr Shan.
Mr Shan was a waitor and front of house who, every morning, without fail, no matter how many others he had to serve, would sit with me for ten minutes, ask about my day, and help me debone my fish.
Atleast one of these ten minutes would be spent telling me all the ways I needed to keep safe and watch out for ‘beach boys’ as I continued South.
He often spoke about his own son, how much he missed him and how much he enjoyed having a youngster like me around, as he had no choice but to stay far away from his own family to make ends meet.
One night, I accidentally left the pastries from Iresha’s mom out on the balcony and, to my horror, they became quickly swathed in swarms of ants.
Presumably guessing from my face at how scared I was to retrieve said insect-ridden plate, without skipping a beat, he darted out to collect it himself.
In response to my apology, he simply said, in the most heart-wrenchingly matter-of-fact tone, 'that's what we do for our children'.
Needless to say, I called my mum immediately, for the first time in a long time, and I took the same ten minutes to ask her about her day.
Since I was little, being the youngest and only girl in my family, I've always felt somewhat wrapped in cotton wool.
And the past few years I've had this strange, misguided desperation to want to break out of it: this inexplicable rush to 'grow up'.
But with the inevitable passage of time, as I’ve become my own person, as we leave our childhoods behind, as we and our parents and grandparents grow older, I realise how much of a blessing and a headstart it is in life to have people who care enough to wrap and swathe you in cotton wool.
In a few years’ time, the Shans and Ireshas of the world won’t be going out of their way to look out for us, to dress us in the clothes of their people, to warn us about beach boys, to bring us home-made food with the magic of a granny’s touch, to so protectively and instinctively dispose of our insect-ridden plates.
Before we know it, our parents won’t have the energy to nag us, run after us, look out for us, fight with us, keep at us to keep safe or tell us what to do.
We’ll have to figure all that out on our own.
Because soon, we'll be the teachers, the leaders and the shapers; the grown-ups trying to make sense of what our time in this world is all about, lecturing the next generation about the same, as they try to muddle through their own path in a world much different to the one we know today.
So it's important, I've realised, to cherish this sweet spot of young adulthood in which we find ourselves; to download the wisdom and experiences of those who came before us, and soak in all that they have to give and teach.
Sometimes, it takes a stranger to remind us of what is truly important; to reflect back at us the pace at which we have been moving through life and allow us to ask ourselves:
are we comfortable with the haste with which we've been travelling? Are we satisfied with how we've been treating those who mean the most? Would we talk proudly of the values by which we've been living?
Sometimes it takes a stranger to show us we need a change in course.
The thing which touched me the most that Shan and Iresha gave me, was their time.
The time taken in their kindness, in their patience, in the calming pace with which they interacted with those around them.
It invited me to slow down; to ask myself:
why have I been sprinting through the past half decade? What is it I have been rushing to find? And has my urgency in its pursuit actually been helping or hindering my happiness?
It often takes a taste of something beyond the fence posts of what we have always known, in order to smell the roses in our own back garden.
After a year of feeling incredibly lost, insecure and hopelessly overwhelmed, this experience made me want to embrace my twenties for all that they are worth,
to embrace my mother for all that she has done,
and to stop trying to hatch out a plan for the next goalpost long enough to experience the youth and joy and unpredictability of this wonderful decade of our lives as it continues to unfold every day right in front of us.
I've realised that the uncertainty which makes our twenties a somewhat unnerving place to be, is also the very thing that makes them so colourful and adventurous:
the wonderful, sometimes painful, but always vital, lessons bourne out of their sheer unpredictability.
I realise now that we are actually at a magical age.
Where we can be intelligent, self-aware, capable adults but still be seen, in all the best ways, as children.
Where we can travel and adventure in the hopes of self-discovery, but still feel guided and protected by those who came before us.
Where we no longer need to be babysat, but still have a world full of elders who care enough to watch over us.
The twenties are a disorienting place of self-determination-one where we are no longer kids but not yet fully-fledged adults.
This experience showed me that, for a few more years, we get to be both-and what a beautiful space that is to be. What a time not to rush or wish away; a time not to take so seriously.
These days, we chase everything.
Our culture of self-improvement sometimes errs on the side of self-obsession.
We're always aiming to get higher and further and grow and evolve into a new and improved version of ourselves.
But the language of 'goals', of 'purpose', of 'passion'-whilst admirable and important, are heavy words.
The idolatry around these ideas-of pursuing our passion and finding our purpose and feeling like our goals must and will complete us-has become, to me, counterproductive.
It has placed an unprecedented amount of pressure on us as young people to figure it all out-and fast.
But when did following our dreams turn into chasing them?
And at what cost?
It's easy to forget what we're racing away from in pursuit of what's ahead.
But the thing that we're racing away from-our youth-is something that we will never get back.
And I think maybe that’s the gift of travelling: to provide a change of pace-one which informs how we want to journey the road of young adulthood.
For me, that’s honouring and cherishing our elders more than ever.
It's taking ten minutes more for the people I love.
It's learning to laugh at myself again and stop taking this thing of life so seriously.
It's turning the dial from rumination to reflection, from critical self-obsession towards kinder self-exploration.
It’s measuring life not by accomplishments, validation or tokens of likeability, but by the curation of those moments which are so indescribably delightful that they can only be captured in a memory-the ones where photos fall short and words can’t do justice and you simply have to be satisfied that you were there, and you saw it, and you lived it, and it was great.
We are at a beautiful age.
One where we get a taste of the ride, but still get to keep our stabilizers on.
The pure, gritty, winding years of our twenties-the final years of our being wrapped in cotton wool, and the first years of our road towards full-fledged adulthood.
So here’s to embracing them for all that they are worth; to measuring them not by accomplishments, validation or tokens of likeability, but by the magic of the moments and the memories we collect on the way.
By Meghana Hegdekar
~ By Meghana Hegdekar
