There is something dramatic, vulnerable, alluring, cathartic—all at once—about looking back at eighteenhood. It would differ, I presume, depending on one’s present stage of life. As an off-hand experiment, I chatted with people in different ‘decades’ about how they remember Year 18. Their answers got more interesting with every ten years: one who’d just crossed 18 thought it made her feel ‘cooler’, and made her believe she “ought to exhibit a sense of responsibility”. The one in his 20s thought he felt more capable of making his own decisions. The educational professional in his 30s turned dramatic, mirroring my own experience: “It was a watershed year, like being stripped bare of all that you had built for so many years, and starting from scratch.” The one in her 40s got misty as she spoke of her great innocence, in a small town, with no clue of the “real world” and what she wanted to be. The linguist in her 50s got ticklish: “I was silly and childlike, I felt nice and proper 18 when I was 24.” I skipped a decade and went for the seventysomething grandmother who told me to call back after two hours so she could make notes on it. Then she read out her two-page essay that spoke of her longing for a guitar at 18 and long cycle rides around central Delhi. It was a year of intellectual churn.