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I have this online friend who lives in the small district of Uvelsky in Russia called Nikolai. We have consistently liked each other's stories for the last few years; even the ones in our native languages that the other one doesn't understand, which might feel a little too dystopian but stay with me. We don't talk about each other's lives a lot but there's an inexplicable sense of companionship there that feels comfortable and safe. Most of our interactions revolve around music and movies but since these are aspects that are extremely personal to one's identity and lived experiences, the connection feels real. There's also the liminal experience of living in a quaint little town where your mind keeps up with the outer world thanks to the internet but you still remain physically separated from it. With Nikolai, this fractured existence of being small town kids plays into our relationship as well.
My father, who is no longer with us, was also a small town kid. But his life was vastly different from my own. Growing up, I’d often hear stories of his childhood where hanging out meant picnics under banyan trees, football matches, and spending hours in the uncharted wilderness of nearby jungles at the young age of 8. His adventures with his school friends sounded like scenes out of an Enid Blyton novel; picking wild berries, shooting birds (with an airgun, thankfully), and playing hide and seek in a forest like the beginning of a thriller. His best friends from those days stayed his best friends till the end. Even when life scattered them across different cities, my dad, born in 1953, somehow kept the connection alive. For him, visiting friends wasn’t an act of convenience but one of commitment. He often joked about having “contacts throughout India” that he could use as an excuse to travel. Even our family trips weren’t centered around exotic holidays but a way to see his friends, often at their kids' weddings.
Compare that to me, born in 1995. While I wasn't allowed stray too far from our home I still spent a part of my childhood without the internet, which I'm told is a good thing. However being an only child and a latchkey kid with two working parents, I did fall into the digital dark side earlier than my peers, and this would continue to define my relationships to this day. My own stories of camaraderie feel scattered, not just across cities but across digital landscapes. While Dad was deeply rooted in one place for most of his life, I’ve hopscotched between Pune, Hyderabad, and my hometown in Chhattisgarh, leaving behind friend groups in each city. Most of my friends are long-distance now. We keep in touch through reels and catch up once in a while. But sometimes, it feels like we already know plenty about each other’s lives through our socials, leaving little to say when we do meet. In my life, the digital world acts as both a bridge and a barrier. We are more connected than ever, yet somehow lonelier. When I think about the bonds I’ve formed online, many of them feel just as meaningful as the ones forged in school or college. Yet, they often don’t translate into real-life companionship. There’s a strange paradox here: you feel deeply connected to someone you’ve never met while feeling distant from people you see every day.
My dad’s friendships were part of a close-knit circle. They were his confidants, his adventure buddies, and later, his business connections. He worked in the same town for 45 years, and the relationships he built were long-term investments that paid off in countless ways, both emotional and practical. My generation’s friendships feel more like networks than circles. We move through different social groups, with college friends, work colleagues, and even the occasional gym buddy each fulfilling a specific role in our lives. The stability of a singular close circle has been replaced by the flexibility of multiple connections, which isn’t necessarily worse, but it is different. It’s a kind of emotional diversification, but it comes with a cost. The depth my dad’s friendships had; the shared history, the silent understanding feels harder to achieve when you’re constantly moving between groups.
Another fascinating difference between my dad’s friendships and mine is how our interests shaped the communities we formed. For him, friendships were often rooted in shared values and beliefs. He gravitated toward people who saw the world the way he did; who shared his philosophical musings and life principles. Much of their time together was spent discussing each other’s families, navigating life’s challenges, and reflecting on what mattered most. Their conversations were deeply personal and often centered around their inner worlds. Hobbies, while present, were a distant concern. With demanding jobs and families to care for, free time wasn’t something they had in abundance, and the little they did was spent reinforcing bonds by looking inward; at each other, into each other's lives, and at the micro decisions that shaped them.
For my friends and I, it’s a little different. Sure, shared values still play a big role, especially with how politically aware and opinionated our generation is, but our friendships are also built on shared passions. Movies, music, and art have become the glue that binds us. Many of my closest friendships are with people who understand the excitement of dissecting a film or sharing playlists that feel like personal love letters. I've had different circles over the years: the gang that was inseparable in high school and then college; the ravers; the writers; the stoners; the cinephiles etc. Through these shared interests, we don’t just connect with each other; we also explore and affirm our own identities. It’s less about looking inward at one another and more about looking outward at the world, together.
This difference in focus shapes the intimacy of our relationships. My dad and his friends shared their lives in a more direct way. They knew everything, big or small, about each other’s families, struggles, and triumphs. Their friendships were deeply entwined with their personal realities.
In contrast, the intimacy I share with my friends often feels projected onto the art we consume together. Movies, music, and even memes become mirrors for our emotions, our vulnerabilities, and even our aspirations. This outward focus, however, doesn’t mean we’re disconnected from each other. If anything, it’s a different kind of intimacy, one that feels expansive rather than insular. By sharing our love for art and culture, we create communities that are just as meaningful as the close-knit circles of my dad’s generation. But these communities have a different texture; they’re shaped by collective exploration rather than personal entanglement. We find ourselves in the things we love, and in sharing that love with others, we find each other.
The juxtaposition between the two generations also highlights the different relationships we had with ourselves. My father was allergic to being lonely, or rather, to the notion of sitting in his loneliness. He'd always find a project or an errand, sometimes even a pilgrimage whenever it caught up to him. I never saw him turn down an invitation or a social call. He was never not up to it. I don't think he enjoyed all of them but he certainly attended each one. Maybe it was an unspoken rule of showing up no matter what. There were no mental health days.
On the contrary, I find cancelling plans, whether it's me or my friends, totally normal. We're okay with our me-times and weeks of no contact is generally met with no hard feelings. We're called snowflakes because we're 'too in touch with ourselves', whereas dad's generation was called out for bottling their feelings. I find myself wondering which of the two is better — drowning out your loneliness with a full calendar or accepting it, even soaking it in at the risk of spiralling within yourself, away from connection?
Friendships like any function of culture are a mirror of its time. My dad’s friendships reflected a slower, more grounded world, while mine speak to the fast, fragmented, and hyperconnected reality I live in. And while the ways we form and maintain these bonds have changed, the need for them remains timeless.
As I sit here, typing away, I feel grateful for the threads that tie us to others whether they’re physical, digital, or somewhere in between.
