Keys have had, and still have, a strong place in the way I remember my life. I have had many keys. Some opened homes. Some opened temporary rooms. Some belonged to people who trusted me enough to let me into their homes. And one, rather mysteriously, isn’t even a key. It is a long, wearable Nepali prayer-flags tag attached to my key ring. But I am getting ahead of myself. Let me begin with the first key.
I was given a house key when I was in Class 10. There wasn’t exactly a trumpet fanfare accompanying it. My father muttered that I would lose it within a week, while I nervously took on the responsibility. Perhaps I wasn’t considered the most likely person to become Keeper of Important Things. But I kept the key. Years later, when the other original keys and their copies had disappeared, copies had to be made from mine. I remember being rather pleased about that. Perhaps this was my first accidental jugaad. Or perhaps it was the first little piece of evidence that said, I can be trusted with something.
Around the same time, another door was quietly appearing. I wanted to write. I didn’t have a grand plan for becoming a writer. I collected possibilities instead. I joined the MIT Writers’ List as a kind of litmus test to find out whether a writer lurked somewhere in my soul. My decision to study Journalism and Corporate Communication at BVB grew out of that experiment. An internship with Chandamama became part of the course. Poetry gradually gave way to prose because I wanted to explore writing that felt less emotional to me. Then came factual writing, journalism, blogging, PCDI and eventually technical writing. It was not a spectacular leap into a writing career. It was more like putting one foot on a stone, then another, and hoping the river would cooperate.
My father watched from the sidelines, rather like a referee, wondering whether I would actually make something of myself. His one wish was to see me stay in a job beyond my self-assigned three-month target. He once sat me down and explained that I needed to stay put, learn on the job and advance. I didn’t understand it then. Looking at my résumé now, I can see that I had a habit of completing one particular task and then feeling the itch to move on. I wasn’t giving up because I couldn’t do the work; I simply felt ready to explore what came next. I definitely kept learning from each job.
The second door opened into Singapore, and with it came a deeper understanding of self-reliance and of exploring a new space without the earlier restrictions of curfews and accounting for where I was at any given time. Singapore gave me two apartment keys: one for Yishun and one for Woodlands. Two keys felt serious. I also bought my first keychain there from an elderly Chinese lady who spoke Mandarin. I wanted a Merlion keychain. I somehow came home with Mer-cats. I had been bowing, smiling and asking for keys while trying to communicate with someone who didn’t speak my language. The cats seemed a perfectly reasonable compromise. Thus began my international career in settling for the available option.
Singapore also gave me a library card. Free. The computer wasn’t free, though. So I saved Singapore dollars from my weekly vegetable budget to buy an Internet top-up card. Vegetables were temporarily asked to understand the importance of writing. Then came the JobsDB and JobStreet profiles. I needed a résumé, and a friend from the community playground shared her computer and printer with me. I made two sets of printed résumés and saved an electronic Word version as a read-only document. I also created a standard cover letter that I could edit and print at the library. I was slowly building my own little employment system with whatever resources were available to me.
Then I discovered that my visa status was not quite as employment-friendly as I had imagined. A month after arriving in Singapore, I found that the Yishun Library offered volunteering for book arrangement. I applied and was accepted. Then I discovered that I could volunteer for storytelling on Thursdays. I started with ten minutes and soon worked my way up to a full thirty-minute session. I had to plan ahead and make sure dinner was prepared before I left for the volunteering. It was another little jugaad, except that this one gave me something I hadn’t expected: a way to participate, contribute and keep writing and storytelling alive while I was figuring out what came next.
Around this section of my life, I misplaced a life’s key. I don’t regret losing that key, because the future had many more keys waiting for me.
By the time I reached the United States, the keys had begun multiplying. There was my sister’s apartment key. I was nervous about that one, but I managed. Then came my hostel room key, which had one important condition attached: return it when I was done using it. I did. Then came my apartment key, which I shared with a Chinese ESL student who was studying Design. Then there was my cousin’s apartment key. That one made me particularly nervous. But once again, I managed. I seem to have spent a considerable portion of my adult life being nervous about something and doing it anyway. This was useful training. I didn’t know it then.
At CCA College, I was given a single key to the Writers’ Studio space, which carried a greater sense of responsibility. There was also the key to figuring out how to get from one place to another: Muni, BART, Caltrain, airports, flights to my brother’s place, trains in Seattle, different stations, different maps and different ways of asking, “Excuse me, am I going in the right direction?” I was learning to travel while being nervous about travelling. It turns out courage doesn’t always arrive before the journey. Sometimes it catches up with you somewhere between the airport gate and the baggage carousel.
There was also Mills College. Before that, there was TOEFL. I discovered that knowing English and knowing how to take a standardised English test were two entirely different talents. So I taught myself how to take the test. I practised. I learned to pace myself. I took it again. Eventually, both Mills College and CCA accepted me, but Mills was the one I wanted. I had privately decided that if Mills thought I was good enough, I would allow myself to believe it too. That was another kind of key. A small one, but it opened something.
Then I came home and worked part-time at Ability Foundation. During that time, I lost my purse with all its important cards, which meant another small expedition through police stations and paperwork. I was also taking care of my parents. Then came jobs in SEO content writing and technical writing, and eventually my present work at RASA as a Staff Writer. Somewhere along the way, the keys had become less about houses and more about responsibility. What do I do when something goes wrong? What do I do when I don’t know what to do? What do I do when the obvious route isn’t available? The answer has usually been the same: Jugaad.
And then came March 2026. A slip. A fall. A shoulder that decided it had its own opinion about my plans. So here I am again, making adjustments, finding workarounds and learning different ways of doing ordinary things. Another jugaad. Apparently, I have never really retired from the profession.
My present key is a long Nepali prayer-flags tag linked to my key ring. It doesn’t open a door in the conventional sense. It simply hangs there on the key hook, carrying with it a little reminder of all the places, people, experiences and responsibilities that have accumulated along the way. Perhaps that is something I have learned rather late: every key has opened an inner understanding. Some things are simply meant to be carried, and my various keys have become memories that I cherish.
The old keys opened doors. The new one reminds me to keep walking.
And perhaps that is what the Princess of Jugaadness has been doing all along. Not knowing exactly what the next door will be. Not always knowing which key will fit. Sometimes being nervous. Sometimes getting it spectacularly wrong. But looking at whatever is in her hand and asking, “Okay. What can I do with this?” And then, somehow, finding a way.
