I was watching the India-Australia ODI the other day when something curious caught my attention. The stadium façade - its arches, the rhythm of its windows, the quiet dignity of its design - looked oddly Victorian. This was the Sydney Cricket Ground, which upon research I discovered was built in 1851, so aptly had a Victorian architecture. What was remarkable that while the stadium would have been upgraded and fitted with modern amenities and technology, its architecture was never tampered with, rather maintained to the original Victorian designs.
That afternoon, I stepped into a branch of the State Bank of India after several years. Driving towards the branch I prepared myself for an experience I probably last had 30 years back in the 1990s - that soft, sepia-tinted decade with the pace of everything - slower. But as I stepped in the branch, the air felt far different. The air-conditioning hummed gently, queues were orderly, and staff went about their work with quiet professionalism. It struck me that even our public sector banks had come a long way. Gone were the hot, paper-filled offices of the 90s where the smell of carbon paper and dust hung heavy in the air. Today’s PSU banks are still a little bureaucratic, yes, but far more polished, better organized, and less intimidating.
As I stood there, nostalgia crept in. I got thinking that we are now slowly losing out on a lot of things that were indicative of the 90s and the early 2000s, which includes the kind of buildings, architecture of the 80s and 90s - very functional, plain, bland architecture but also the customs, the mannerisms of working of people, the language and the culture. For example, Banks were slower and bureaucratic with almost no 'customer service' processes in place - you didn't get assigned a 'token' upon walking into the branch, there were no SLAs on how much time it would take to resolve your query or to service you. A lot of it was frustrating because running a simple errand at the bank meant sacrificing half a day's productive work. The transformation was undeniable - and yet, something more than infrastructure seemed lost in the transition.
Up until the 90s, Bank branches had a quiet familiarity in them. The staff would be the same for decades, and if you were a regular customer, they would know - not just you - but your family. I remember being sent to the Bank, as a 15 year old with a handwritten withdrawal note by my Mom, because she had to be home with my brother and my father was traveling. The teller would know who I was, he would help me fill out the appropriate withdrawal slip, get me to sign at the appointed place, and withdraw cash and hand it out to me. He would also walk out of the branch with me and make sure I mounted my bicycle and went in the direction of my home until his gaze could follow. There were no mobile phones, but he'd probably also find out a way to reach my Dad at an office phone to inform him that the money was handed over.
The admixture of the Sydney Cricket Ground having preserved the Victorian architecture of the yore, and the fact that even an SBI branch felt transformed, got me thinking of what else we're losing from the 80s-90s-2000s which might have been valuable. I felt that we are slowly erasing the visual and emotional vocabulary of the 90s.
From Aspiration to Argument
One peculiar aspect of the India of the 1990s which I recollect is that it did not wear its ideology on its sleeve. It was embedded in everyday life - in classrooms, workplaces, and television screens. Programs like Mile Sur Mera Tumhara or Surabhi didn’t preach harmony; they portrayed it as a lived reality. Jingles like Ek Chidiya, Anek Chidiya were gentle reminders of unity, not pompous declarations of jingoistic nationalistic fervor. Religious and cultural coexistence was so natural that stories didn’t have to mention it. There was unity without self-congratulation, and diversity without defensiveness. That organic, almost invisible culture has now given way to a far more explicit and exhausting discourse. Today, even the most innocuous statement is filtered through a binary lens of “for” or “against,” “religious” or “anti-religious,” “nationalist” or “liberal.”
More importantly, back then, public discourse was shaped by aspiration. Students obsessed over better grades, getting into IITs, IIMs or civil services. Professionals sought promotions and families wanted to build better lives. Even the state machinery - however bureaucratic - shared a quiet obsession with improvement and nation building. India’s collective narrative was about moving forward. Our ambitions were personal, not ideological. We were united not by slogans, but by aspiration. Progress was our common religion.
Fast forward to the 2020s, and everything feels louder - our architecture, our conversations, and our identities. The very buildings of the 90s are being torn down and replaced, just as our cultural fabric seems to be shredding under the weight of polarization. Every opinion today feels like a potential battlefield. Whether it’s a meme, a joke, or a comment on economic policy, everything is dissected through the lens of ideology - secular versus religious, left versus right, “for” or “against.” And when every opinion is dissected for subtext, every joke demands disclaimers, then even silence is suspect.
We’ve reached a point where neutrality is seen as evasive and not taking sides is also akin to taking one. Energy is diverted from progress to positioning. Instead of discussing how to grow the economy, debates now revolve around whether a policy aligns with a perceived ideology. The question has shifted from “Does this make life better?” to “Whose side are you on?”
That shift is more than semantic; it threatens productivity and social cohesion. A society fixated on ideological alignment risks intellectual stasis - and fatigue is already visible in the public mood.
Perhaps that’s why so many people today feel exhausted by social media. It’s no longer a place of discovery or connection - it’s a battleground of labels. The fatigue we feel isn’t just from information overload; it’s from interpretation overload. Every thought must be decoded for its hidden loyalties.
And that is what I miss most about the 90s - the innocence or even absence of intention; or the need to find one in every action. The simplicity of being able to express, laugh, or criticize without having to declare which “side” you’re on.
Preserving What Lies Between Eras
We often speak about preserving our ancient heritage - the temples, forts, palaces, monuments even cave dwellings, that tell the story of our civilization from ancient to modern. And we must! But we must also recognize that the decades after independence - the 60s, 70s, 80s, 90s, and even the early 2000s - are equally a part of our living history.
Those concrete office blocks, post-modern rectangular undecorated bank buildings, and public sector campuses were the architecture of aspiration. They reflected a time when India was building itself - modestly, imperfectly, but with purpose. We need to preserve at least some of these spaces, not as tourist attractions, but as reminders of how we functioned, dreamed, and collaborated in those years. And just as we must preserve those physical structures, we must find ways to preserve the cultural architecture of that period too - the ethos of unspoken nationalism, of unforced unity, of collective progress.
For those of us who came of age in the late 90s or early 2000s, this sense of loss is deeply personal. We aren’t yearning for nostalgia’s sake. What we truly miss is continuity. The unbroken thread of values that made India not just a diverse country, but a harmoniously functioning one - where difference was normal, not dangerous.
Societies need reference points - eras that remind them of who they were when they were at their most progressive. The 90s represented one such point for India: quietly nationalist, collectively aspirational, modestly confident. The 90s taught us how to coexist without constantly reminding each other that we were coexisting. That is what we need to preserve - not just in memory, but in practice.
Preserving 90s culture does not mean returning to landlines or paper ledgers. It means restoring the underlying sensibility: a focus on progress without polarization, on unity without uniformity. In the rush to modernize, we’ve begun to demolish not just structures but sensibilities. Rebuilding the middle - the space of reason, aspiration, and quiet nationalism - may be the most urgent construction project India faces today.
Because someday, when our children look back at our times, I hope they don’t just see glass towers and polarized timelines. I hope they can still feel the quiet hum of a simpler decade - the hum of an India that didn’t need to shout to stay united.
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