The Geography of Becoming: A Literary Life Part Two

In the First part of this long essay, Amandeep Midha —known to readers of this magazine as a keen observer of geopolitics—turned inward to revisit his formative years in the terror-ridden Punjab of the 1980s and 1990s. In this second installment, he narrates the opening of a new world: first during a three‑week stay at his aunt’s home in Delhi, and later through his move to Bangalore in 1999 for higher studies. These essays are not mere personal reminiscences; rather, through his anecdotes, we are invited to recall an era with fresh insight. Here we witness how a teenager at the dawn of the new millennium was shaped by contemporary events and debates, and how those experiences left a lasting imprint on his literary journey. In the remaining installments, readers will encounter the books that shaped him and the ways in which his readings left their mark.

The Geography of Becoming: A Literary Life  Part Two

Delhi: The Archaeology of Normalcy

Amandeep Midha

In January 1991, Delhi offered me something I had forgotten existed: the luxury of evening and ice cream strolls. For three weeks, I inhabited a city where 7 p.m. was not a retreat but an invitation, where families gathered to debate the Gulf War over ice cream, where curiosity rather than caution governed conversations.

My cousins spoke fluently about global events ranging from kerosene shortages, swadeshi versus foreign economic policies, the distant thunder of conflicts that somehow felt less immediate than the bombs I'd grown up with. I didn't fully grasp their discussions, but I absorbed something more valuable: the ambient assumption that the world was knowledgeable, debatable, and participatory. This was my first encounter with civic normalcy, the idea that current events were puzzles to be solved rather than threats to be survived.

I also discovered, in small and mischievous ways, that India had begun liberalizing. New companies, like Pepsi, were everywhere, flaunting their best television advertisements, yet they weren’t Indian. Two of my cousins viewed this as theft of Indian markets by multinational companies. I happily munched on a packet of Lays potato chips while my cousin carefully refused to eat, declaring she would not eat a Pepsico product. Being raised a single child, I hated sharing deep down, and I realized: if I got a Lays packet next time, it would be all mine. I did this perhaps once more, savoring the small victory. Soon, though, my curiosity shifted back to larger concerns: the Gulf War of 1991. Dinner table conversations moved seamlessly from snacks to geopolitics. My cousins debated why the U.S. was going to war with Iraq to liberate Kuwait, also referencing the earlier Iran-Iraq war. Iraq sounded like a perpetual bully creating problems for everyone, but the nuance of opinion was clear: they were anxious about the impact on India, even if the moral framing differed.

And then there was food, a revelation in itself. My cousin-sisters introduced me to a white bread, three-layered sandwich with tomato and cucumber layers, slathered with Amul butter. In my mother’s watch at home in Abohar, tomatoes were a near-forbidden indulgence, carefully rationed due to a kidney stone in early childhood. Cucumber on bread was something entirely new, and the combination with soft white bread and butter felt indulgent, luxurious even. Until then, I had only seen white bread used for tea-time snacks, bread pakodas, or omelettes. This was something entirely different, as it was my first visual and gustatory registration of what one might call “food porn.” I binged on these sandwiches, delighted not just by taste, but by the freedom to choose, the sense that the world outside Abohar offered small, unanticipated pleasures. My aunt’s house in Delhi had opened all its heart and its fridge to me those weeks, and I devoured the joy of it with unabashed enthusiasm.

The Empathy Education of Literature

Delhi also marked my encounter with Munshi Premchand's "Eidgah", a deceptively simple story about a child who chooses a humble chimta (tongs) for his grandmother instead of toys for himself. This was my first experience of literature as emotional archaeology, the way a story could excavate feelings you didn't know you possessed. The boy's quiet sacrifice toward his grandmother suddenly made visible the invisible sacrifices of my own mother and aunts, women who had structured their entire lives around the protection and nurturing of others.

Here began my understanding that great literature operates like an emotional radar, while it reveals the hidden topography of human relationships, makes the familiar strange and the strange familiar. Premchand showed me that empathy could be cultivated like a skill, that stories could function as laboratories for understanding human motivation.

History as Process, Not Event

At my eldest aunt's house in Delhi, I also discovered books detailing the journeys of Faxian and Xuanzang, both Buddhist monks whose travels between India and China revealed that cultural transformation happens not through dramatic moments but through patient, persistent exchange. Faxian's journey around 400 AD, Xuanzang's epic travels from 627–645 AD, these weren't just adventures but evidence that civilization itself is a collaborative project, built through centuries of intellectual commerce.

This understanding revolutionized my sense of history. India didn't simply "transition" from Harshvardhan's Hindu rule to Mughal authority; China didn't suddenly "become Buddhist" through cultural import. Instead, these were geological processes, ideas sedimenting over decades, practices evolving through continuous cross-pollination, multiple Buddhas emerging through dialogue rather than singular revelation.

And then there were my cousin sisters in Delhi, who introduced me to green tea long before it was common in India. Until then, “tea” in my world had always meant the sweet, strong milk version simmering on stoves in Punjab. Green tea was a revelation, not only in taste, but in the realization that there was a spectrum of tea tastes and brews. I began to learn how the British had stolen tea from China to transplant it into India, and how each variation, from bitter leaves to aromatic blends, carried with it a history of trade, empire, and culture. That single shift from milk tea to green tea opened a new curiosity in me: that even the most ordinary rituals could hold within them a vast story of the world

Insight: Delhi taught me that normalcy itself is a privilege, the freedom to be curious rather than constantly vigilant, to engage with ideas rather than simply surviving them. The discovery that history unfolds through process rather than event became a template for understanding all transformation: personal, cultural, political. Change happens through accumulation, through the slow work of dialogue and exchange, not through the sudden drama of revolution.

Bangalore: The Laboratory of Reinvention

By 1999, Bangalore had become my university of possibility. Computer labs open until midnight, the IIMB library accessible through the night and suddenly, life expands beyond the constraints of both fear and conventional schedule. I was pursuing my MCA while audaciously masquerading as an MBA student at various college festivals, winning competitions in territories where I technically didn't belong.

This period of playful deception, pretending to be what I wasn't while excelling at it, became my introduction to the fluidity of identity. When I was eventually caught and disqualified from one competition while my teammates continued, I found myself stranded at KIMS Dharwad, transforming my accumulated worldly knowledge into entertainment, flirtation, and storytelling. What could have been embarrassment became improvisation; what could have been failure became a different kind of education altogether.

Bangalore also marked a continuation of my sensory and cultural education, much like Delhi had been. I discovered the humble egg puff, in those bakeries of BTM Layout Bangalore, instantly becoming my favorite snack, especially in the myriad Malayali-owned bakeries that seemed to sprout on every corner, far more than I had ever seen in any other city. The puff was a revelation: flaky pastry, spiced boiled egg filling, handheld joy. I binged on them with reckless delight, a small but meaningful indulgence in newfound autonomy. Cafes and street food stalls became laboratories of taste; I tasted independence and exploration with every bite.

Bangalore also showed me what tolerance and civility could feel like in everyday life, a city where disagreement didn’t immediately escalate into confrontation. Coming from Punjab, where even a small disruption could ignite chaos, I found Bangalore’s composure astonishing. If a working traffic light was accidentally switched off in Punjab, it would lead to shouting, horns blaring, sometimes even fists raised. But in Bangalore, people simply adjusted, waited, and let the flow recalibrate itself. It was my first encounter with an unspoken social empathy, a quiet respect for order not enforced but shared. Much later, I would come to recognize this as the signature of a developed society, the collective patience born not of fear but of mutual consideration.

Insight: Bangalore taught me that identity is performative and multiple. The confidence to inhabit roles I hadn't officially earned revealed that competence often precedes credentials, that sometimes you must become something before you're formally permitted to be it. This period established my comfort with ambiguity, my willingness to operate in the spaces between official categories.

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(Continued) - The first part of this article can be reached here. 

Amandeep Midha is a technologist, writer, and global speaker with over two decades of experience in digital platforms building, data streaming, and digital transformation. He has contributed thought leadership to Forbes, World Economic Forum, Horasis, and CSR Times, and actively engages in technology policy-making discussions. Based in Copenhagen, Amandeep blends deep technical expertise with a passion for social impact and storytelling.