Sometimes Growth Looks Like Not Fitting In Anymore

 Sometimes Growth Looks Like Not Fitting In Anymore

The WhatsApp Group That Never Arrived

A few months ago, a group of us were sitting together one evening, talking about old times, old friends and the usual stories that become more entertaining every time they're retold. Someone suddenly said, "Why don't we all go to Allahabad?" It was the kind of suggestion that could easily have been laughed off. Instead, within minutes, everyone was interested — the wives too, which is usually a very good sign when several families are involved.

Soon we were discussing dates, flights, hotels, food, drinks, whether we needed a hall, what music we should have and, inevitably, what we'd do afterwards. Someone even suggested a WhatsApp group for the preparations. We all thought that was an excellent idea. I am still waiting for the WhatsApp group.

Nobody has bought a ticket yet, and if I'm honest, I don't think this particular trip is actually going to happen. But as I thought about that evening afterwards, I realized it was never really about organizing a reunion. We were talking about going home.

The Place We Came From

For me, Allahabad is not simply a city on a map or a collection of childhood memories. It's home in a way that's hard to explain unless you've left somewhere that shaped you. It's where I grew up, went to school, spent my teenage years and made friendships that have lasted for decades — back when I had no idea these ordinary days would one day become precious memories. We were simply getting on with life.

I've been to reunions of pupils I taught many years ago, some now in their forties, and there's something wonderful about meeting people after so long and discovering that an old friendship can return within minutes. There's also, of course, what time has done to all of us. We remember each other as young men and women and then meet again with more kilos, fewer hairs and considerably more lines. Some of us now approach a low chair with the caution normally reserved for a flight of stairs. But once the conversation starts, none of that matters. The teasing returns, the old stories come back, and somebody remembers something everybody else had forgotten.

That's what I imagine when I think about Allahabad — not a city frozen in the past, but a place that still holds the people we once were.

When Things Stop Fitting

There's a point in life when you notice that some things that once suited you perfectly no longer do. I don't mean clothes, though that's part of it too. I mean roles and expectations.

Early in my leadership career, it mattered to me that people liked me — that they understood my decisions, agreed with them, and left the room happy. Leadership cured me of that rather quickly. As a headmaster, I once made a decision a group of staff clearly disagreed with — no argument, no raised voices, just a definite coolness around me for several days. The younger me would have worried about it for weeks. The man I'd become simply thought: I've listened, I've considered it, and now I have to take responsibility for the decision. It was oddly freeing, discovering I could carry that coolness without losing any sleep over it.

Families teach the same lesson, more gently. The child who once needed your help with everything arrives one day with opinions of their own — their own home, their own way of doing things — and the role that once fitted you so naturally has to loosen its grip. Stepping back, you learn, isn't the same as stepping away.

Going Back, Without Going Back

Perhaps that's why the thought of Allahabad has stayed with me.

If we do go, I know exactly what I want to do. I want to walk through our old schools, wander the famous markets for the jalebis and the curd, and see just how busy that once-sleepy little town has become.

And there is somewhere else I want to go. A quiet corner of a cemetery, where someone I lost many years ago still, in some way, feels like part of that place. It isn't something I've planned aloud or spoken about with the others. But if I make it back to Allahabad, I know I won't leave without going there.

That contrast would probably be the most striking part of any visit. The town in my memory has changed — buildings gone, new ones risen, streets that once seemed enormous now perhaps looking surprisingly small. But somewhere among all that change would be the places that take me straight back.

And we would have changed too. We would arrive carrying everything that happened afterwards — careers, marriages, children, mistakes, disappointments, friendships, and all the experience accumulated over the years. We can't recreate the Allahabad of our youth, because we can't recreate our youth. But perhaps that isn't what going back is about. It's about standing in a familiar place with old friends, recognising how far we've travelled, remembering the boys and girls we were without pretending we still are.

Whether we'll actually go, I honestly don't know. Most likely, life will do what it usually does — the dates won't align, the WhatsApp group will stay unmade, and Allahabad will remain, for now, a place we talk about rather than visit. And perhaps that's all right.

That evening already gave us something no trip could improve on: a few hours of being simply old friends again, with no titles and no schedules, just old stories and the people who shared them.

And perhaps that's enough. We don't need to relive the past. We can simply be grateful that we once belonged there.