What Actually Lasts

Dust to dust, with engagement.

In a world of fleeting trends and even shorter attention spans, a Gen Z would define legacy as a ‘reel that gets 50k views’. With the millennial correcting it to 100k views and a Gen Alpha wrapping up the statement by adding 100k views plus engagement plus sustainable merch to go with it.

The Gen X would just grit her/his teeth and sustain the urge to give ‘one tight slap’.

And that is the legacy that us Gen Xers can identify. Because we didn’t just create the one tight slap, we lived it. That’s the legacy our parents and teachers left us. The righteousness soaked in middle class jus, the Hail Mary to our Holy Fans picnics.

But of late, I have been wondering about this word a lot. Why has it suddenly become the holy grail of all things uber affluent? No longer is the silicon valley nerd asking if he is solving a problem, his start-up idea is on the legacy that he will leave behind. Even the corner store kapde wale bhaiya calls himself the desi entrepreneur, and curates ‘A lavish confluence of interlaced warp and weft, yielding a supple matrix that drapes with fluid elegance, born from spun filaments steeped in artisanal craft’ aka fabric.​ No one is selling anything anymore. There is no market demand and supply. There is just curation and legacy. And everyone, from Silicon Valley tech bros to kapde-wale bhaiyas is cosplaying depth.

Have we as a civilisation evolved so much that our needs of Roti, Kapda and Makaan are satiated and we now are aiming for luxuries that our forefathers wouldn’t have imagined?

And people who should be thinking about legacy are so busy collecting newer accolades, that they don’t have the bandwidth to even understand the enormity of the task. They think that they are so blessed that this also will fall into place.

Earlier, before the term was appropriated into everyday lingo, legacy simply meant progeny. And there was a mad scramble by all family members to get the sons married so that their legacy lived on to the next generation. Never mind that the daughter was the one who was carrying most of the genes. It was the surname that mattered. Some seemingly liberal parents allowed their legacies to fool around a bit and then dabble in systemic investments before creating legacies of their own. So now we have ended up with a generation that is so twisted that most millennials have opted for brick and mortar legacies instead of the flesh and blood type.

Many moons ago, when I was going through a major medical procedure, I was also bitten by the legacy bug, mostly because I was told that it won’t be possible for me later on after the surgery. And I promptly nominated two of my closest friends to be the donors. One, a vulture phobic, lanky, righteous sweetheart and the other a beefcake yet lanky, joker with questionable dance moves. Both very reluctantly agreed knowing very well that the bully in me was always overshadowed by the languorous in me.

And thank god for that. What legacy would I have passed on? My Substack account, all with 50+ subscribers? Or my rage, induced by middle child syndrome and perimenopause?

With around 65k births daily in India, the act of procreating is not exclusive to a certain segment only. And this is one act that requires no schooling, no secret sauce or mantra. Even my dumb as fuck driver who can barely read traffic signs, has successfully managed to create two legacies well into their teenage years. He knows that’s all the value he can ever create and is quite content with it. Like most people.

Most people who know that they can package this legacy under the garb of accumulating wealth and followers, forget the basic principles of life and death. Dust to dust. We do not matter. Our legacies do not matter. We are just a speck hurtling through the cosmos to merge with many such specs into nothingness.

What we can do instead is have such a profound effect on each other that this knowledge of nothingness is pushed to the back of our mind. So that we can then enjoy the birds and the bees and the flowers and the ubiquitous old monk served at the nearest watering hole.

And speaking of which, Mr. Bhatia, of the dark glasses and Hawaiian shirt fame, who lurked at Totos, remembering the names and main idiosyncrasies of most patrons left us early on a Monday morning in the first month of this year. His was a legacy of remembrance and genuine interest and perhaps a tad bit of pride of having created an establishment that was a melting pot for many.

So in dust, we shall meet again, eh?