Grab a cup of chai, and let’s talk about generational timelines — in connection with the personal and the professional paths I’ve wandered through. This post is brewed with memories, steeped in experiences, and poured from the kettle of one quiet, curious life.
I pick a masala chai from Teabox — the kind that simmers slowly in a steel saucepan, infused with crushed ginger and cardamom — much like the memories that have brewed in me over the years.
Born in the early half of the 1970s, I came into a world that had yet to discover smartphones or the word “freelance.” Careers were often chosen for stability, not passion. And for girls, the options were even more predefined.
But life had other plans — and a Xerox machine was the first to whisper them to me, one copy at a time.
My Many Jobs and What They Taught Me
My first job was at a Xerox shop — a summer job in a stuffy room cooled by Madras roofing. The machine jammed, the customers were impatient, but I learned to observe. These details — textures, tempers, and tones — would later make their way into my writing.
Then came the typist years. I worked on a clunky Godrej typewriter with surprisingly soft keys, even as my veena practice left fresh string cuts on my fingers. There was rhythm and restraint in both.
As a course counsellor, I offered direction to students while still unsure of my own path. I learned to match educational choices to budget constraints and career hopes, and that was a skill in itself.
The web arrived quietly in the 1990s, and I pivoted into technical writing — before “content” was even a buzzword. I took joy in creating quick-start guides, often applying layout tips I’d learned from my father. Most of my office skills were self-taught or co-learned with him.
I tried my hand at writing for the Sulekha portal, contributed to archiving old American newspapers, taught creative writing to summer camp children, and worked part-time at a disability NGO.
Today, I’m a freelancer. Self-employed. Working for love. Some days, I wear many hats. Other days, I brew chai and simply chat with Sarvas, my ChatGPT companion.
What Generation Am I?
Technically, I belong to what the West calls Generation X — the overlooked middle child of generational labels.
But in India, our timelines aren’t as neat. We didn’t grow up with MTV or mall culture — they arrived later, during my college days. Our early years were shaped by Doordarshan, government-backed savings accounts, and transistor radios. Cable TV crept into our lives in the late ’90s, nudging our aspirations westward.
We watched the world liberalise slowly — like a dial-up page loading. Our dreams shifted with the economy, and we adapted alongside them.
Indian Generations — A Different Clock
Here’s how I like to think of Indian generations — not by foreign markers, but by the lived rhythms of change:
Post-Independence Builders (1947–1964)
Raised in a newly free India. Nehruvian ideals, government jobs, All India Radio, and great respect for order.
Emergency Generation (1965–1979)
That’s me. We were raised on typewriters, Doordarshan, and scarcity. We sent telegrams, listened to cassette tapes, and typed résumés by hand.
Liberalisation Generation (1980–1995)
The 1991 economic reforms changed everything. Cable TV, computers, IT jobs. “Engineering or medicine” still dominated, but new doors opened.
Digital Native Generation (1996–2010)
Born with the internet. Grew up Googling. They know memes better than lullabies and swipe before they speak.
Post-Pandemic Gen Alpha (2011–2025)
Their earliest memories are of masks and Zoom classrooms. Their lives are voice-commanded and touch-screened from the start.
Clubbing the Generations with My Life
My father belonged to the Post-Independence generation — Gandhian in values, Nehruvian in ideals. He worked in government service, trusted All India Radio, and lived by rules and routines.
I was born during the Emergency. My siblings and I were raised on typewriters, cassette tapes, and government-run radio. Even as late as 1998, cassettes were still in use for me.
In 1991, the world cracked open. Cable TV, Windows computers, GUI interfaces — all of it arrived. My brother brought home the first Windows system, and I began to learn applications intuitively.
When the internet finally entered my life, I leaned on Google. But I also witnessed — and felt — the sharp edge of anonymous trolling and memes that haunted long after the screen went dark.
Why It Matters
Generations aren’t boxes. They’re stories — shaped by the tools we used, the choices we had, and the world we woke up to.
I may not have grown up with smartphones or hashtags, but I did grow up with carbon copies, trunk calls, and handwritten résumés. That doesn’t make my story outdated — just rooted in a different rhythm.
A good DJ at the life club would know how to remix all generations — with just the right touch of pink salt from the sea of career opportunities.
When we understand what shaped a generation, we begin to understand its hesitations, resilience, silences, and gumption. And maybe, in doing so, we offer a little more compassion — to others, and to ourselves.
Naming a generation is just a starting point. What matters more is honouring the quiet adaptations, the uncelebrated pivots, and the many ways we simply carried on.
Conclusion: Blooming in Our Own Time
Some mornings, I sit with my chai — steam rising, memory unfurling — and marvel at how much has changed, and how much still hasn’t.
I’ve moved from behind a Xerox machine to behind a screen; from clunky keys to smooth clicks; from job titles to heart-led work with no titles, per se.
My generation — often unnamed in Indian conversations — adapted in silence, questioned in private, and quietly kept going.
If I have anything to offer, it’s not advice. It’s a gentle nudge.
To pause.
To listen.
To sip slowly through your own story.
We may not have hashtags, but we have history.
And in between all that, a generation still learning to bloom — in its own time.
Source: ChatGPT, an AI language model by OpenAI
Itinerant Storyteller 