Growing Up with Less: Reflections on a Life of Scarcity and Choices

In my childhood, I often overheard loud conversations between my mother and my cousin, who was much older than me. These conversations usually signaled that something in our routine had gone wrong. If it was in the morning, it was typically about a shortage of milk or water. As kids, our parents made sure we had everything we needed, sheltering us from the struggles they faced. I’d briefly wake up from the noise, pull the covers over my face, and fall back asleep, unaware of the challenges they were navigating.

Back then, every family had to book a specific amount of milk in advance. Even if you had the money, you couldn't buy more than your allotted amount, as this would deny another family their share. There were two variants of milk, identified by blue and red stripes. The entire neighborhood would step out at the same time to collect milk, creating an odd camaraderie. Just like you had office friends and train friends in Mumbai, we also had “milk friends” — those who gathered to buy milk together.

In our games, among a group of 10-15 friends, we’d often have only two or three bats and balls to share. While everyone knew who owned the bat, the person who brought it never got any special privilege. We each contributed 50 paise to buy new balls, and it was perfectly normal for us to share the bat. Even when the bat's owner didn’t join us, we’d go to his house, grab it, and return it once the day was done.

There was just one TV channel back then, and it wasn't even on 24/7. It usually started in the evening and went on till night, with the exception of December 31st, when the transmission continued past midnight. Celebrating New Year’s Eve at a fancy hotel was a luxury few could afford. Most families spent the night in front of the TV, with mothers running in and out of the kitchen, serving food and doing dishes. By the time they finished their chores, the countdown to the new year had begun.

News of ration deliveries would spread through society members, and we would quickly grab cloth bags to get rice, wheat, and grains, along with cans for kerosene. Standing in long queues was common, and often, by the time we reached the counter, supplies would be gone. Gas cylinders were limited to one per family, and getting a refill could take up to 30 days. Mothers would mark the calendar and carefully calculate when to reorder to avoid going back to cooking on a stove.

When it came to shoes, we had just one pair for everything. Formal shoes for school, slippers for playing outside, and leather sandals for special occasions or family visits. Choices were scarce, and we made do with what we had.

Bollywood movies in those days followed a formula: they depicted the struggle and anger of the

common man, ultimately leading to a happy ending. That’s likely why Amitabh Bachchan became a superstar—his portrayal of the "angry young man" resonated with the struggles faced by most ordinary citizens, and the promise of a happy ending was a dream for many.

Looking back, I realized our standard of living improved during my final year of school. That year, my brother received a scholarship and left for Moscow to pursue his MTech. For the first time, we dined at a fancy restaurant called "Delhi Darbar" in Colaba—until then, our family outings had been limited to Udipi restaurants or a glass of sugarcane juice. I used to think that when we ordered at a restaurant, we could only afford to order once. Preparing for my brother's trip to Moscow was a first for us; we shopped for winter clothes, jackets, and sweaters, all packed into two suitcases. When my brother returned after a year, we had bought color television, a VCR, and a telephone, and suddenly we had two government TV channels instead of one. In one of our post-trip chats, he remarked that our standard of living had risen considerably.

By the time I started college, India was liberalizing. Shops began to upgrade their appearances, and people moved from tailoring clothes to buying ready-made ones. Consumers now had choices beyond Indian Airlines when flying. I distinctly remember picking up my brother from the airport when he flew in from Moscow on ModiLuft. They had served beer onboard, and he made sure to avoid too much eye contact with our parents, having likely had a few drinks!

Private banks emerged, and banking became more accessible—you could check your balance with a simple phone call, and deposits weren’t restricted to your home branch. I also noticed shifts in office culture. When my father went to work, he always wore formal clothes, much like a school uniform. In my early career, Saturdays were for casual dress, and with the adoption of a five-day workweek, “Friday dressing” came in. I remember sitting on the train, noticing the sea of blue, white, and black as we passed the male commuters’ section, while the women’s compartment was a blur of colorful shades. Over time, men’s office wear also became more colorful, and the image of a nationalized bank manager in sandals, with his shirt untucked, seemed to fade.

My wife and I decided to marry in December 1999, just before the Y2K phenomenon. The wedding hall wasn’t air-conditioned, but we managed with the cooler December weather in Mumbai. It’s funny to think that nowadays, we can’t imagine a wedding hall without AC.

forward to 2007, when my son was born, and malls started popping up everywhere. Our idea of entertainment shifted—taking our son to the play zone while we went shopping became the new normal. Sales at malls allowed us to buy brands we once thought were out of reach. Our wardrobe expanded, and footwear racks became common in homes to store all our shoes. Monthly shopping shifted from the local kirana store to department stores that offered a dizzying array of choices—at least 10-15 varieties of rice, wheat, cereals, and toiletries. Brand loyalty started fading as customers chased deals instead.

When my son started school, we faced the dilemma of choosing the “right” school bag for him. In our childhood, there was only one—a brown jute bag that lasted through the years. By contrast, my son’s generation cycles through bags every year. The amount of stationery and toys they have is mind-boggling. Where we longed for chocolates brought by relatives from the Gulf, for my son, they became a daily indulgence. And the concept of sharing toys, which was natural for us, is now met with reluctance by kids who are used to having everything of their own.

Today, shopping is driven by discounts rather than needs, thanks to the rise of e-commerce. Sales are no longer confined to twice a year; they happen 5 or 6 times annually. Innovation, once rare, now seems like a monthly occurrence. Early adopters don’t wait for sales—they jump on the latest trends.

Entertainment is consumed on different devices now, no longer bringing families together to watch a single TV show. Content has diversified, catering to every taste, and offering people the chance to showcase their talents and find success. No longer is a college degree the only path to success—pursuing one’s passion in the right direction can be equally rewarding. In the future, professionals might no longer be tied to specific organizations, but rather work as consultants, offering their expertise on a project basis.

Bollywood actors, too, will likely be judged on individual projects rather than having long reigns of stardom like Rajesh Khanna, Amitabh Bachchan, or the Khans. Each actor will be expected to outperform their last project to stay relevant.

I could go on, but I’ll save the rest for a book titled From Scarcity to Spoilt with Choice. Writing this, I feel fortunate to have witnessed this journey—from scarcity to abundance. While having more choices is a blessing, it’s important to remain prudent in our spending and to value what we have.