Remember that old advertisement? 

“Sub gussakartehain, main gharchhodkejarahahoon”

“Magargharmein to mummy ne garma-garamjalebiyanbanayihain.”

“Jalebi!”

That advertisement worked on multiple levels.The foodies watched it for the jalebis. The advertisers wanted us to remember the cooking oil. Adults found it adorable. Children found it deeply relatable because, at some point, running away from home genuinely seemed like the quickest route to independence.

As kids, we couldn’t wait to grow up and do whatever we wanted. Adulthood meant freedom.

“You can’t go out.”

“When I am an adult, I will go wherever I want.”

“You can’t have that toy.”

“When I’m an adult, I’ll buy whatever I want.”

“You have homework.”

“When I am an adult, I won’t have any homework.”

Adults heard this hundreds of times. They smiled and nodded but never corrected us. It wasn’t kindness. It was the smile of people who had already watched the horror movie and didn’t want to spoil the ending.

As children, freedom looked magnificent. Then we became adults and discovered that adulthood is simply a premium subscription to responsibilities.

To a 12-year-old, “I’ll earn my own money” sounded heroic. No one explained that the money would merely stop at our bank account to collect its breath before catching the next flight. Salary Day is the shortest festival on the calendar. By breakfast, the rent has greeted it, the electricity bill has hugged it, the internet recharge has shaken hands with it, the EMI has kidnapped it, and the insurance premium has quietly escorted the remaining balance out of the building.The bank account stares back with a princely sum of ₹143.62 and three weeks left before the next salary.

As children, we dreamed of eating ice cream for breakfast, pizza for lunch, burgers for dinner, and chips and chocolate whenever we wished. When we finally got that freedom, the stomach and health issues unionised.

One samosa? Acidity.

Two gulabjamuns? Blood sugar enters the chat.

Cheese on the pizza? The arteries begin writing strongly worded letters.

A late-night biryani? The digestive system files an official complaint.

The freedom is there. But the body insists on reading the terms and conditions. A doctor looks at the blood reports and says, “Reduce salt, reduce sugar, reduce oil, reduce carbs, reduce everything that makes you happy.” Wonderful!

There was a time when our parents forced us to sleep on time. We protested. We wanted to watch late-night TV.  Now we beg sleep to come. And it remains as elusive as a maiden in Sanskrit literature. At 2:17 a.m., the brain decides this is the perfect time to replay that incident from 2011. Remember when you slipped in front of your crush, and everyone laughed? No. I didn’t! Thank you for preserving that memory in Ultra HD.

People often say adulthood means nobody tells you what to do. Really? My bank tells me to maintain a minimum balance. The office tells me I attend meetings that shouldn’t even have been an email.The insurance company tells me that my life is uncertain. I escaped my parents. I now report to seventeen different apps.

And yet, when children look at adulthood and call it freedom, we smile, exactly the way our parents did. Because every generation deserves to discover, at its own pace, that adulthood is indeed freedom. Freedom to decide whether to pay the electricity bill first or the credit card bill. Freedom to choose between sleeping eight hours or eating breakfast. Freedom to spend twenty minutes creating a password you’ll forget in twenty-one.

Yes, we are independent. No one tells us when to sleep. We lie awake voluntarily, wondering whether we switched off the gas, and praying the Wi-Fi works properly tomorrow. It’s everything our ten-year-old selves wanted. Just not quite the way we imagined.