When Curiosity Fell into the Black Hole
So the other day I was talking to my dad about how, as kids, we used to be obsessed with space. Like, really obsessed.
We’d ask questions like, how did the universe begin? Why is there life on Earth and not on other planets? What’s inside a black hole? And of course, the Bermuda Triangle, why do people vanish there? Has anyone ever come back? Is it a portal to another dimension?
At one point, almost every kid I knew wanted to be an astronaut or a scientist. Some wanted to build rockets, float through galaxies, build time machines, and discover aliens. The sky wasn’t the limit; it was the playground. We used to lie on rooftops, spot stars, draw imaginary constellations, and wonder how big the universe really was.
But then we grew up. Or at least, we were expected to.
We got caught in a race that no one remembers signing up for, one that feels more like a trap than a choice, chasing grades, degrees, jobs, promotions, money, and status. The sky became something we see through windows on the way to work. The stars got buried behind city lights and phone screens. Nobody asks what happens after we die anymore, or why the moon is following us. And even fewer ask, “Do aliens exist?”
We traded wonder for worry. Curiosity for caution. Magic for metrics.
But the kid inside us, the one who looked up at the night sky and thought anything was possible, is still here. Maybe a little quieter now. A little buried under “be practical” and “grow up” and “how will this pay the bills?” But they’re still breathing. Still aching to ask questions that don’t have answers. Still wishing someone would say it’s okay not to have it all figured out. Because maybe the most human thing is not chasing certainty or success but staying curious. Like we used to be, when we were still excited about galaxies, time travel, and the mystery of everything.
And that’s what Kishor Barta is for—for the kid inside you, to keep them alive.
ROSHNI Chakravartty | Chief Editor
Kishor Barta