© The Indian Express Pvt Ltd
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Journalism of Courage
As a little boy growing up in Delhi, New Year’s Eve held a kind of magic that no clock striking midnight could define. It wasn’t the fireworks, though they painted the skies in ephemeral bursts of light. It wasn’t the laughter of the grown-ups or the music spilling out of living rooms into the winter chill. For me, the magic was always a plate of baked beans on toast.
Aabha Aunty’s baked beans — to be exact, her golden, buttery perfection that turned humble bread into a feast. She had a knack for balance: a dash of lemon that cut through the sweetness, onions chopped so finely they became more melody than crunch. The beans sat in their tomatoey embrace, unapologetically simple, yet each bite sang with flavour.
The grown-ups would toast the arrival of another year, their glasses raised to resolutions whispered with conviction: This year, I’ll quit smoking. I’ll lose weight. I’ll spend less. Meanwhile, we kids flitted between rooms, one foot in the laughter of childhood, the other peeking into the mysterious world of adulthood. I watched as their resolutions, spoken like incantations, faded into the din of the next twelve months. Every December, those same promises would return, repackaged and polished but no closer to reality.
Even as a child, I felt it — this quiet futility, this ritual wrapped in resignation. Resolutions weren’t celebrations of who we were but lamentations of who we were not. They weren’t joyful declarations of intent; but guilt-driven attempts to mould ourselves into someone else’s vision of worthiness.
It took decades for me to name what I felt then. Resolutions, I’ve come to realise, are traps. They glitter in their promises of transformation, yet bind us to cycles of guilt, shame, and inevitable failure. They are not born from the soul’s yearning for growth but from the world’s incessant demand that we be different, better, thinner, richer, faster.
I’ve fallen into this trap myself. In my twenties, I promised to sculpt myself into someone admirable. My arms weren’t big enough, my waist was not small enough, my jawline not sharp enough. I chased those resolutions with the zeal of a man running from his shadow, only to find them dissolving into the fog of another January.
Life, however, has a way of teaching us truths we’re not yet ready to hear. Years later, standing in my restaurant kitchen, I burned a batch of pear chutney. Frustrated, I tried scraping at the charred remnants, cursing the chaos that had distracted me. Yet, when I tasted it, I discovered something miraculous. The caramelisation had transformed the chutney, giving it depth and richness I hadn’t intended. That mistake, born of failure, became my most requested recipe.
I couldn’t stop thinking about how life, much like that chutney, often delivers its richest flavours in moments we believe we’ve ruined. Failure, it turned out, wasn’t an ending. It was the beginning of something I hadn’t yet imagined.
Resolutions don’t allow for this kind of alchemy. They demand precision, perfection. And when we inevitably fall short, they leave us to simmer in the bitterness of our own self-recrimination.
The baked beans, the chutney — these humble foods taught me something profound: life’s most meaningful joys come not from striving for perfection but from savouring what already exists. The sweetness of those beans wasn’t just in their tomatoey richness but in the hands that prepared them, the love that infused them, the memories they nourished.
So why do we persist? Why do we pledge to become someone else each January, instead of embracing who we already are? Because the world has convinced us that fulfilment lies in becoming, not in being. We’re told to measure our worth by what we achieve, not by how deeply we live.
What if, instead, we resolved not to change but to honour ourselves? What if we turned away from the endless cycle of self-punishment and chose instead to live with intention, to evolve not because we must but because we desire to grow?
To live with intention is not to chase an ideal but to nurture what is already within. It’s to recognise that fulfilment isn’t found in calorie counts or bank balances but in the quiet moments that feed our souls: the laughter of a friend, the warmth of a home-cooked meal, the feeling of sunlight on our skin.
Gratitude, I’ve learned, is the antidote to the emptiness resolutions leave behind. It doesn’t demand perfection; it thrives in the imperfect. It lives in the Uber driver who shares a story, the barista who remembers your name, the smell of rain on dry earth. Gratitude doesn’t ask us to become more; it invites us to notice what we already have.
This year, as the calendar turns, I won’t make resolutions. I won’t promise to become someone new. Instead, I’ll ask myself: How can I honour this life I’ve been given?
The answer, I think, is simple. By living it fully, messily, and beautifully. By embracing failure as a teacher, not a tormentor. By tasting every bite of a meal for the joy it brings, not the guilt it might carry. By walking without hurry, singing without performance, and resting without shame.
There’s a song I’ve always loved, one that feels especially poignant as I reflect on the year ahead. Lag Ja Gale, it says. Embrace me, for who knows if this night will come again. This, I think, is the essence of living with intention: to embrace life — its imperfections, surprises, fleeting beauty — with open arms and an open heart.
Imagine if we all lived this way, not in pursuit of transformation but in celebration of presence. What if we let go of the relentless striving for “more” and leaned into the abundance of now? What if, instead of chasing impossible ideals, we nourished the parts of ourselves that already shine?
Resolutions demand that we start anew each January, erasing the months before. But life isn’t meant to be wiped clean; it’s meant to be layered, like that burnt chutney, with flavours born from our mistakes and triumphs alike.
Aabha Aunty’s baked beans and that accidental chutney — they’ve stayed with me, not just for their taste but for what they represent. They are reminders that life is not about perfection but about savouring the ordinary, about finding joy in what we have rather than despairing over what we lack.
So this year, I’ll focus not on becoming but on being. I’ll make space for gratitude, for connection, for the quiet moments that make life extraordinary. I’ll seek fulfilment not in others’ expectations but in my own soul’s whispering: This is enough. You are enough.
As 2025 unfolds, I hope we all resolve to step away from resolutions. Let’s chase not the unattainable but the deeply resonant, the profoundly human. Let’s make this a year of reckoning — not with our shortcomings but with our gifts. Let’s embrace life, wholly and without hesitation.
And perhaps, as we step into this new year, we can gather around a table. Let’s celebrate with chutney and baked beans on toast — not because they’re perfect, but because they remind us of the beauty in simplicity, the richness of the moment, and the joy of being unapologetically ourselves.
