It’s the season of lists: Are you a list-maker or an avid follower?

Your year is made if you are in one and if you aren’t, it feels as though someone has adroitly removed the rug from under your feet, leaving you in a pile of self-doubt that you have always pushed under the very rug.

Let me tell you about what makes me suspicious of lists. In my childhood, my parents, like everyone else in their generation, documented life on a wall calendar. Ours hung beside the puja alcove and was the Malayalam calendar that came loaded with details of asterisms and muhurthams; ekadashis and the waxing and waning of the moon, not to forget every single religious, bank and national holiday. In the homes of friends or relatives, I spotted calendars as well — Bengali and Tamizh. Elaborate theme-based calendars and clinical-looking bank calendars. All of them had numerous jottings on them.

The thing about these calendars was while they were seemingly similar, they were each unique. In my home, depending on who was marking it, dates were circled in green or blue, with notes alongside the margins in corresponding colours. There were, of course, red circled days. The day S won a prize. The day A got her bicycle. The day A broke her chin.

Sometimes, if no one was paying attention, I would try and read what was on the calendars in other homes. Mostly, it made no sense. “1 + 7 Gas” in my home meant the cooking gas lasted a month + 7 days. But what on earth did “1+ 3 Exam” mean in Mr Reddy’s home or “Tomatoes 2.4 mean” in Mr Singh’s house? That was when it struck me that every family has its own private code with which they documented their lives.

In many ways, the lists that appear at the end of every year are no different. I read a list and wonder what made the list-maker choose the names they have. It seems an intensely private act where the calibration methods would be of little relevance to anyone but the list-maker.

I am sure there are countless people like me who will consult a list but won’t be tyrannised by one. For we do not want to set aside our sense of fulfilment in finding a new voice, or watching a little-known actor or discovering something for ourselves rather than letting a list determine what we will consume as artistic expression or accept as a trend.

And yet, the world continues to create lists and people continue to be led by them. Each month, my father would, with great ceremony, move the previous month’s sheet through the metal hook on the calendar’s spine and, with that, put to bed all its surprises, expenses and special occasions. Probably these lists give us that sense of ceremonial closure. The year is nearly done and the hours lived so carelessly can now be recaptured by heeding the lists.

Dear Reader, I am not a listophobe. On the contrary, I love lists and how they bring order into the whole chaotic business of living. I have lists for everything. Groceries. Dry Cleaning. Avocadoes sold. Random relatives who came calling. Books to Read. Things to do… So much so that on my bedside table, alongside my reading glasses and bottle of Vicks Vaporub, is a notepad on which to make lists.

When I look at my lists over the last 12 months, my life lays itself out before me. My lists are a documentation of details rather than divine pronouncements. These lists encapsulate the measure of my life. It helps me to retrospect on the art I created and the art I absorbed, for the details of my everyday has a direct tie to my emotional state and perspective.

Which is why, the voyage of discovery is entirely mine. And will be only mine.

Nair is author, most recently, of Hot Stage