The Day My Perspective Was Quietly Rewritten

There are friendships that survive the years, and then there are those that absorb you, quietly upgrading your status from “friend” to “extended family,” without paperwork but with full expectations.

I have been part of such arrangements for decades. Which also means I have, over time, acquired an unofficial but widely recognised designation: Senior Advisor to Other People’s Children.

One such child, now very much not a child, has been known to me from the day he was born. I have watched him grow across cities, countries, and time zones, visiting me with his parents and grandmother at various postings of mine. I too have returned the courtesy, dropping in periodically to check on his progress in life, and, more importantly, to correct it where necessary.

From very early on, the boy showed a rare consistency of purpose. While the rest of us experimented with hobbies, he committed himself wholeheartedly to video games. This was not distraction. This was focus, misdirected, according to me, but focus nevertheless.

His parents, both employed and managing their own demanding schedules, did what most thoughtful parents do in such situations, they tried different ways to nudge him away from the habit.  I happened to be one of those ways.

Thus began my long and entirely self-appointed career as a specialist in screen addiction, armed with experience, conviction, and absolutely no formal training.

I remember an early victory in Hyderabad when he was about eight or nine. His increasing spectacle number provided me with the kind of evidence every advisor dreams of, visible, measurable, and entirely convenient. I presented my case with the authority of a medical journal (which I had not read) and the confidence of a man who had just discovered correlation.

For a brief period, he appeared to reduce his gaming or so I thought.  In hindsight, this was less a behavioural shift and more a temporary system glitch.

A few years later, I visited them abroad and discovered that the boy had not only persisted but had innovated. He was now playing with people across the globe, friends, as he described them, coordinating across time zones with the ease of an air traffic controller.

This was deeply problematic.  I had, in an earlier advisory session, clearly explained that excessive gaming would limit his social interactions. Instead, he had built an international network while sitting in one place. It was at this point that I began to suspect that my models required revision.

What remained reassuring, however, was his schedule, or lack of it. Late-night gaming sessions stretching well past midnight, followed by reluctant mornings.  Finally, I had something reliable to worry about.  Except, inconveniently, he continued to do well in school.

This introduced an undesirable complexity into my argument. I persisted nevertheless. After all, consistency is the backbone of all good advice, whether or not it is effective.

Years passed. He entered engineering. The habit endured, now upgraded to sessions that extended till 2 a.m., even with exams approaching. His parents, demonstrating admirable faith in past performance, requested my intervention once again.  I accepted.

Experience, as they say, is what enables you to repeat mistakes with greater confidence.

I approached him while he was in the middle of a game, coordinating with multiple players across the globe. Without looking away from the screen, he asked for half an hour.  He returned in forty-five minutes.  I chose to interpret this as respect.

During the wait, I refined my approach. This was no longer a child who could be overawed with statistics about eyesight. I needed sophistication. Strategy.  Psychological nuance.

I decided I would not mention studies at all. I would guide him, subtly, to his own conclusion.  (At this stage, I was operating at a level that would have impressed even me, had I been observing from a distance.)

We began with his gaming ecosystem. Who were these people? What did he know about them?  Very little, it turned out, usernames, skill levels, and a shared enthusiasm. The individuals changed; the engagement did not.

Then I asked him where he stood in terms of performance. His answer was refreshingly balanced, he won often, and he lost often.  No illusions. This was unexpected.

I moved to familiar ground. I spoke of my own younger days, of cricket matches that stretched till dusk, of friends who rose through structured levels to play at higher stages, of table tennis and chess players who progressed with clear milestones.  Back then, improvement had a shape. It could be seen, measured, announced to relatives.

I then asked him: after more than a decade of such intense gaming, where did he see himself in similar terms? Where was he in any kind of world ranking? I believed I had touched a raw nerve. But his answer was disarmingly simple, there was no such ambition. He played because he enjoyed it.

I sensed an opening.  I suggested, gently, reasonably, that if there was no measurable growth, no structured progression, only enjoyment, then perhaps it was worth reconsidering the time invested, especially at the cost of sleep and routine.

He listened. Completely. No interruptions.

Then he appeared thoughful and curious.

In my experience, this is rarely a good sign.  He asked if he could ask me something in return, and requested that I answer honestly, without taking offence.  I agreed immediately. Years of advising had made me resilient.  Or so I believed.

He asked about my career, what I had retired as, at what age I reached that position, and what the retirement age was.  I answered, still confident that this was a harmless detour.

Then he asked: If we spend most of our lives working long hours, often away from family, dedicating ourselves to our profession… how is it that many of us do not reach the very top or anywhere near it, while someone much younger goes on to head the very same organisation?

It was not confrontational. It was not even critical.  It was precise.

And in that moment, something shifted.  I realised that the distinction I had drawn, between “purposeful effort” and “wasted time”, was not as clear as I had imagined.  Both, in their own ways, are driven by engagement, satisfaction, and, occasionally, habit. Outcomes, as it turns out, are not guaranteed in either domain.

I recovered, as one does, with dignity intact and expression neutral.  But internally, the situation had been reviewed, reassessed, and quietly closed.  That day, I understood that perspective evolves too, and that what feels self-evident in one life may not hold the same meaning in another.

In our Bangalore childhoods, evenings meant being chased back home after hours of play, with parents measuring time by fading light and rising irritation.

Today, time is measured differently, by screens, schedules, and silent negotiations with ourselves.  But every once in a while, life recreates that old scene.  

Only this time, it is not a parent calling you back. It is a question. And you realise that growing up, perhaps, does not quite end when we think it does.

Stories, not instructions. Experiences, not advice—medical or otherwise. Data, only what the internet quietly gathers anyway. Proceed with equal parts curiosity and common sense.