in case of people, do not label

While working on a college application essay that asked me to reflect on a belief I once held and how it changed, I felt overwhelmed. So many of my early beliefs—about karma, authenticity, punk rock—have been reshaped by books, experiences, even a simple conversation (some of those reflections are in my archive).

But I didn’t end up writing about any of those. I wrote two drafts—neither intellectual nor profound, just personal. The one I submitted felt more encompassing. This one felt too trivial. But I keep coming back to it and regret not sharing. So instead of letting it sit unread, I’m sharing it here. 

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For my ninth birthday, I finally got my prized possession: the Dymo Rhino 5200 industrial label maker. With the fervor of a taxonomist, I sorted paints by hue, hairclips by size, and pens by type. Each grouping received a laminated label, ceremoniously slapped on like a knighted title.

It was, in hindsight, a response to the unpredictability of my childhood: moving from Hong Kong to Kuwait, hopping across apartments, switching schools, then leaving for boarding school in Panchgani, and later settling into Mumbai and shifting all over again. With every move, I gained new objects (new labels) and lost old ones—entire categories erased, their absence quietly noted. Labeling gave me continuity—a sense of stability. When the world shifted, at least my pencils stayed in place.

Yet the same practice that helped me feel in control became reductive when applied to people. You can label erasers by shape, but try summarizing a person with that same specificity—things get complicated. My classmates in Kuwait were a mosaic of nationalities and culture; my younger sister Vedika argues fiercely about broccoli being blasphemous and laughs with me for hours, yet those who don’t know her - see her as timid and polite. And my father—my biggest inspiration—was also someone whose life taught me several cautionary tales. How do I categorize these people in one laminated word or even with my entire 59cm tape roll?

Humans are complicated—they evolve, contradict themselves, and often surprise you. No combination of letters or symbols, not even on my reliable Rhino 5200, can capture the full depth of a human being. I realized there’s a thin line between labeling and judging. It would be imprudent to face life with an unfaltering urge to compartmentalize everything.

While I like my room tidy, I don’t want humans, including myself, boxed in. I might label my books with color-coded categories and order my bookshelf from Atwood, Kafka to Kang, with Chauhan and Miranda in between, but I also reread books out of order. I line up spices with geometric precision but measure them with “swaad-anusar.” I list cupboard items in Excel yet pack an hour before a flight and lose half my stuff—a self-proclaimed punk-rock philosopher without a mohawk or piercing. I may contradict myself—well, that only adds nuance.

So I’ve learned to put down the labeler—or at least not point it at people.

One of my favourite articles on Star-Stax Codex “Categories were made for man, not man for categories."

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*Unfortunately, my beloved Dymo didn’t survive the COVID years—lost somewhere between shifting apartments and misplaced boxes. Still, I miss the feeling of those embossed black labels, the quiet satisfaction of pressing down each letter, one satisfying click at a time.

**These days, I’ve traded label tape for mini notebooks—collected (and occasionally stolen) from internships, flights, Claire’s, The Bombay Store (yes, that aamchi Mumbai one every girl has owned at some point), Bharatnatyam classes, my old school diaries, and the Muji ones I carry while traveling to sketch or scribble. And then there’s the childhood notebook, the one reserved for special occasions. The one where I write slowly, almost reverently, painting each thought like it matters.

They’re all scribbled with lists, notes, half-formed goals. In a world of digitisation, nothing brings me clarity quite like paper and a ball pen.

Maybe one day, I’ll share them with you.