I have always been something of an outlier — not just in what I do, but in how I think, how I approach life, what I love and what I can't be bothered with. Newness alone has never been enough to win me over. Not in the people I keep close, not in the things I buy, not in where I invest my time — not in almost anything where I actually get to choose.
What draws me in instead is the question of how something will age. The patina that builds on full-grain leather over years of use. A song that doesn't just land in the moment but deepens with time. A friendship that softens from novelty into something cosy and familiar. A skill practiced so long it becomes second nature, something you no longer have to reach for because it's simply part of you. Freshness has its place, I won't deny that — but I find myself constantly asking, almost instinctively, how a skill, a relationship, a song, or an object will hold up ten or twenty years from now.
My saree collection is small but, to me, invaluable — some pieces I've held onto for twenty years, and not one of them looks dated. That's not an accident. I never chased fast fashion; I chose timeless classics, the kind of craftsmanship that has already survived generations and will likely survive many more. The detail, the finesse, the sheer skill in the weave — that outlasts any runway trend by miles.
Music works the same way for me. I look for the combination of good composition, meaningful lyrics, and vocals with real texture — not whatever's topping the charts this week. My playlists span from the 1960s to songs released a few months ago, all judged by the same three measures, and by that yardstick, they've all aged well regardless of when they were made.
Even the bags I choose follow this logic. A recognisable logo has never been the point. What matters to me is leather I can watch develop character over years, hardware and stitching solid enough to earn a patina rather than just wear out. It's utility plus longevity, not status for its own sake.
This same instinct shapes how I build my professional skill set. Rather than chasing whatever's currently in demand or riding a hype cycle, I try to think ahead — where a skill is headed, whether it will still matter in five or ten years. And I've noticed the same filter applies to how I choose people. I'm drawn to a well-lived life, an openness that comes from having seen the world, a kind of seasoning that's been refined rather than hardened — people whom life has tested without wearing them down into cynicism but instead given a fine patina of character. That, if I'm honest, is the person I hope to become too — someone time refines rather than erodes.