We inhabit the same planet, and yet each country is mired in its own gook, whether it’s the news cycle, the arts, festivals, religion, politics, or sport. We often forget that we are the same human being, descended from the same common ancestor. Which is why New Year‘s Eve is so special. The annual changing of guard is a universal occasion. It’s our collective birthday.
I spent the better part of this year trying to escape Indian samachar. On apps like Haystack, one can tune into live news from local American TV stations: Milwaukee, Louisville, Oklahoma, Tampa Bay, Pennsylvania, Pittsburgh, and Champlain Valley. The provincial American khabar train runs on its own rail tracks: tornadoes, guns, apples, doughnuts, Trump, runaway pet pigs and stories like, ‘Man Meets Pilot in his Baby Photo Who Inspired His Flying Career’. Distances separate us, but deep inside, we reside in the same village. Just the flora and fauna are different.
This was the year of the thick transparent spectacle frame and the Indian single malt; of Shane MacGowan, Sinead O’ Connor (who once snitched to the cops about the former using heroin – all is forgiven now), Tina Turner, Harry Belafonte, Cormac McCarthy and Matthew Perry dying.
The year of yet another Rolling Stones Top 10 album, the Gen Z trends of silent walking – walking without phone or iPod – and quiet quitting – working the bare minimum, putting in no more effort or enthusiasm than necessary, and, of course, WorldSpace Satellite radio.
Wait, what?! Sorry, WorldSpace was another year, but that’s what happens to me at the end of most years – one bleeds into the other, and I get confused. As Janis Joplin sang, ‘It’s all the same fucking day, man.’But what of the inner life of these two earthly years, 2023 and 2024? What do they think? On a whim, I drunk-dialled them last night, and to my surprise, they picked up. A tired-sounding 2023 said: ‘Look, we see it as a peaceful transition of power. It’s a relay race, where I’ll hand over the baton to 2024 at midnight. Ours is a thankless and selfless job. We provide the time and Mother Earth the space for you Earthlings to act your life out. You humans created us anyway – the 12-month year. Thankfully, we have the autonomy to do our thing.’ 2024 sounded tipsy and optimistic. ‘It’s the last night I have to myself. From tomorrow, I’ll be playing host to the entire world. The thing about us years is that we never fight among ourselves. We do our job and eject. Tonight, while you guys sit in the planetary stadium watching, clapping, hugging, punching, whistling, singing, sipping, smoking, quaffing, whooping, slapping each other’s backs, we’ll be out in the middle doing our thing. Please make sure the floodlights are working. And the baton is 30 cm long, 13 cm in circumference and weighs 50 grams. We follow Olympic standards.’
When I asked if there would be a ribbon-cutting ceremony, 2023 sounded irritable. ‘That’s for you humans. Inaugurating flyovers that collapse after the inauguration, laying foundation stones for buildings that never get built. We do our bidding and disappear.’
There was time left for one last question. ‘What happens to the years past, like the year I was born? Where do they go?’ ‘Ah,’ replied 2023, ‘We live on in some form inside you. Once you are gone, your cohort is gone, and we are gone. Finito.’ ‘And remember,’ said 2024, ‘What appears to be a dense jungle now will, tomorrow, look like a rosy garden path. The universe has a way of easing up.’
