The Lost Generation of Artists, Writers, and Sportspersons

Every now and then, a familiar surname floats past on my feed—attached to a guitar solo, a zonal cricket match, or a small gallery exhibit. Someone’s son is representing their university in a zonal cricket tournament. Someone’s daughter is performing Carnatic vocals at a college fest. A painting’s gone up in a local gallery. A guitar solo performed at a bar gig has made its way to an YouTube channel or Soundcloud. 

These updates are almost always accompanied by a proud caption. But what catches my attention isn’t the post—it’s the parent, for they are my childhood friend.

I remember that the dad was once a Ranji-level cricketer who now manages a regional office for a bank. I know the mother who once sketched brilliantly in the margins of notebooks but now heads a Pharma company. Another was an aspiring guitarist in a college band before trading riffs for revenue targets.

Their dreams didn’t exactly die. They were deferred. Placed on pause by the demands of a different time.

Ours was a generation that grew up in the gap—between aspiration and access. Talented, but told to be careful. Encouraged, but redirected. They weren’t denied dreams—just nudged away from them in the name of practicality.

Art was a hobby. Sport was a phase. Music was for Sundays.
Engineering was the path. Banking was the outcome.

Years later, life seems to bend gently towards the very dreams they once placed on the shelf.

Today, their children picks up the brushes, bats, tabla or a tennis racket. And this time, no one’s pulling them away. In fact, the support is often so structured that it feels almost strategic.

Partly, it is because that the the world changed. There are now careers in creativity, medals in sport, money in the unthinkable. But more than that, the parents changed. With age came stability. And with stability, a second chance—one lived not through themselves, but through their children.

This is not always about pressure or projection. It’s often subtle. Quiet. Even unconscious. A guitar left lying around. A football class signed up for. A school play encouraged, a drawing exhibited. Sometimes, it’s as simple as not stopping them—because no one stopped you and you still remember how that felt.

We often think of success as a straight line. But for many, it's generational. What was once a deviation becomes a destination—for the next in line.

Even in popular culture, the pattern plays out. We hear about many stories in cinema or cricket. Anu Malik’s father was a respected but lesser-known composer. Mahesh Bhatt’s own parents had strained ties with the film world. Rakesh Roshan was a struggling actor before becoming a producer and launching Hrithik. Chunky Pandey didn’t quite make it big—his daughter did. The Kapoors (Boney-Anil wala), now into its third generation, had a beginning that was far from stardom. 

In many cases, children don’t inherit fame. They complete it.

And maybe that’s what’s quietly happening around us.

A generation of middle-class India that became engineers, bank managers, bureaucrats, and marketers—also carried within them poets, dancers, painters, and players. They didn’t abandon those selves—they archived them. And now, with life’s responsibilities handled, they’re making room for them to return.

Not through regret. But through revival.

And so we see a silent restoration taking place. Of lost talents and paused passions. Of art, music, and sport returning to families that once let them go.

It’s easy to dismiss this as projection. But maybe it’s something deeper—a desire for emotional continuity. A wish to see some version of yourself not just survive, but thrive. Even if it’s wearing your child’s shoes.

The good news is that this quiet redemption is producing a new wave of talent—grounded, supported, and self-aware. 

The better news is that our dreams don’t really vanish. Sometimes, they simply take the long way home—skipping a generation, and returning with better timing