No economics today. Or I should say, the only economics today is the wordplay in the title — Change in Changes.
Changes in our lives can manifest in different ways, and we perhaps associate them with different things. Until recently, I associated the major changes in my life to monsoon. Monsoons are seasonal changes in wind systems. But for me, like most Indians, perhaps, monsoons are about rain.
It felt like the monsoon winds were carrying me along with rain. In Hyderabad, they ushered me from one school year to the next, gentle and predictable. Then the winds strengthened. They took me west to Mumbai for college. Then North to Delhi for work. And then their direction reversed to bring me to Pune for my master’s.
Of course, there’s no direct causal relationship between the monsoons and these life changes. The academic calendar and the seasons happened to correlate. Yet they felt intertwined. The first rain of the season became a symbol of beginnings—seen not from familiar windows, but from windows of new houses in unfamiliar cities. The scent of rain-kissed earth, that beloved petrichor, came imbued with notes of foreign soil.
The monsoon nourished the soil for my growth. But those same winds that helped me grow could also uproot me, and uproot me they did. They transplanted me into new cities—sometimes strange, sometimes overwhelming.
In each city, though, I could count on two things for warmth. In Mumbai, there was vada pav—more precisely, Aram Vada Pav. In Delhi, it was samosas. In Pune, I had the comfort of both, and pakoras. And in every city, there was another kind of warmth: the kindness of strangers who became friends, steady and sustaining like the rains themselves.
But this year, the monsoon winds blew even stronger, carrying me not just across cities but across continents—and leaving the rain behind. No more first rains seen from new windows. No more earthy petrichor to accompany me into unfamiliar terrain.
Now, as I look out of my window, the change I see is different. Green leaves fade, gradually, into a palette of gold and orange. The air is colder, sharper than I have ever known. Here, I cannot count on the warmth of vada pav, samosas, or pakoras. The kindness of strangers surrounds me still, friends yet to be made.
And yet, today, I saw my first snow through this new window. There was no petrichor, but there was something else—the sweet, comforting scent of caramel coffee. And there was warmth—not from food or familiarity, but from the joy of seeing the people I hope to be friends with, sharing my excitement at this small wonder.