High School is a weird time for everyone (well, it was for me). The priorities, mindset, and inclinations we had (I had) were sure to baffle the present us (me) as it unequivocally did our families back then. As the fog of teenage years cleared up and the changing sands of time forged a lens to introspect the past, we (by now, you should realize that I like to diffuse personal embarrassment by choosing to identify with the plurality of a shared experience) look back at high school with a sense of cautious amusement.
Acne, barely emerging facial hair, and cringeworthy fashion choices defined my teen years. We all thought we were so much older than we actually were. We would go out in our school uniforms after eight hours of rigorous studying (let’s pretend we all did that) with a vigor that only the fires of youth can drive forward. Such an enthusiastic drive for life could only come from a cocooned (sheltered, if I have to be brutally honest), nonchalant, and uncaring existence. Hedonistic tendencies of adolescence drove me and my friends, school uniform and acne in tow, to a small food shack every now and then after school.
Fueled by hormonal instability, the trains that were our adolescent years would charge on ahead at full speed, evaporating sweat like steam from an engine. To power this humid hubris, we felt a kind of immense hunger, a literal gluttony for nourishment. This, thankfully, has been swept away by the tides of adulthood, along with bad fashion choices of the past, but back then, we could eat unbelievable amounts of food. Name it, momos as the main dish and a variety of deep-fried (dripping with oil as proof) stick food as sides; sausages, mushrooms, potatoes, drumsticks, etc. Not to forget all the sodas to wash it down, and even the occasional cigarette. The curiosities that come with growing out of childhood and a misguided sense of panache to impress peers led us to unhealthily stuff ourselves with food and indulge in the occasional stick of tobacco.
Three tables would have to be unwillingly joined to accommodate me and my large group of friends. Like uniformed prisoners, all of us would show up together wearing a striped school outfit, braving through the shared existence of adolescence. Navigating school, talking about crushes, badmouthing teachers (sorry, Ma'am, I kind of get it now), discussing the hottest bikes on the streets, exchanging movie recommendations, and praising the latest video game releases. The plethora of unhealthy food, which we would pride ourselves in consuming to the last crumb, would be lathered up with equally questionable spicy sauces that had been sitting out unrefrigerated in the heat of summer, before reaching the ultimate destination that was our guts, which is what powered our formative years. It’s a surprise that our stomachs could digest it all—such was the fire in our bellies back then.
With the passing of the years, we grew up (thankfully), and our taste in food did too (luckily). If not in that specific shack, we would still congregate around a table for food and a light-hearted chat. But the tides of life mercilessly swept us to the four corners of the globe, battering at the shared memories and history that anchored us together. Some to different countries, some to peculiar professions, and some to (sorry to say, but) unsavory personalities. With commonalities shifting and compatibilities changing, the days of three adjoining tables faded away.
The grunts of waiters lifting heavy tables and dragging squeaky chairs to adjust for us are gone. Now, I am lucky to come across a handful of friends at a time—everyone seems busy running their own race. I’m not sad that things have changed; it is the truth of existence that everything is always in flux. I am grateful to have had those experiences, those evenings with three adjoining tables and impractical nutritional choices. With time, and through molting the shell of poor hygiene and bad stylistic choices, I’ve discovered myself as an adult (although I still struggle with the fashion part of it all).
So, ultimately, I guess this story is about friendships and aging. For the friends that are, the friends that will be, and the friends that once were. It is in honor of the food shacks, the pani-puri bhaiyas, the restaurants, chiya-pasals, coffee cafés, the momo stalls, the green-curtained bhattis, and anything else in between that made those friendships possible, and by extension, made us who we are today. Whether we meet up in that dark tea shop near our school, or a well-lit café in the center of the neighborhood, or even at a fancy eatery abroad, every time our paths cross, however infrequently that is, it has taught us (me) something. Our shared history ties us, our lived past binds us. Though our stories may unfurl in opposite directions, they all stem from the same soil, sprouting through countless food shacks standing in the unnamed corners we’ve roamed along the way.