Gen X

Gen X didn’t grow up with therapy or oat milk. We grew up with Parle-G – the national biscuit of emotional resilience – dunked into overboiled chai until it became a soft, tragic sponge that fell apart mid-dip, like most adult relationships. For three rupees and a small sacrifice to the nearest kirana god, we’d secure a plastic packet of paisa vasool paradise: Poppins in five violently unnatural colours (each one tasting slightly like guilt and tutti-frutti), Kismi Toffee Bar with its fake cardamom swagger, and of course, Rola Cola, the sweet that couldn’t decide if it wanted to be a Coke or a lozenge (and died trying to be both.) And then, there were the Phantom Sweet Cigarettes – the elegant weapon of choice for every nine-year-old pretending to be a chain-smoking villain from an Amitabh film. With a sugar stick in your mouth and an invisible trench coat on your shoulders, you could strut into any playground with the arrogance of a Bombay don. Sweets weren’t eaten – they were performed. You didn’t just lick Aam Papad; you unfurled it like a government file, tore off a square, chewed with intensity, and made that dramatic face that said, “This is spicy, but I have no regrets.” You didn’t simply open Fatafat; you threw back those tiny black balls like pills in a Bollywood asylum. You weren’t a kid, you were a sugar-fuelled, tamarind-scarred revolutionary. Gold Spot, “the Zing Thing,” was basically orange soda with ADHD. One sip and you were galloping around like you’d mainlined Diwali. Thums Up tasted like cola with commitment issues and a hint of pepper spray. If you drank it straight from the bottle, you were automatically considered mature and possibly dangerous. Birthday parties were democratic carnivals of cholesterol. Uncle Chipps was the crown jewel – thin, salty slices of potato so sharp they could commit murder in a soap opera. Someone always brought Melody, and no one ever figured out why it’s so chocolaty, but we all accepted it as one of India’s great unsolved mysteries, like where the second chappal goes. And then there were the imported dreams – Quality Street in that purple tin your relatives brought from abroad, which sat unopened for three years, admired more than eaten, like a Fabergé egg or your cousin’s MBA. Today, kids have gluten-free gummy bears and trauma-informed cake pops. But we had fake cigarettes, violent orange candy, and digestive pills disguised as treats. We were raised on lies and preservatives, and somehow, miraculously, we turned out fabulous. We were lactose tolerant, emotion-suppressant, mildly constipated, and spiritually sponsored by Hajmola. No one had allergies. Just a loose stomach and blind optimism. And if you survived a summer eating roadside kulfi, and licking your fingers after bhel puri made by a man with one thumbnail and zero regrets – congratulations, your immune system deserves the Bharat Ratna.