The album Amaltas by Shashwat Bulusu doesn’t announce itself. It slips in quietly, like dusk you only notice once the room has already changed. The songs don’t chase clarity or demand attention. The album’s name fits. The Amaltas tree spends most of its life looking unremarkable. Green, steady, almost forgettable. And then, suddenly, it erupts into yellow. No warning. No apology. The waiting turns out to be the work. That rhythm felt uncomfortably accurate to how my year unfolded. I didn’t grow in straight lines. I didn’t grow loudly. Most of my growth was easy to miss while it was happening. Internally, things were shifting. Externally, I looked the same. Like the Amaltas before it flowers, I spent a long time appearing unchanged.
If this year had a location, it would be the second floor. Not the ground, where everything feels urgent and reactive. Not the terrace, where distance starts pretending it’s clarity. The second floor is suspension. You can see exits and entrances at once. You’re not trapped, but you’re not leaving either. A lot of this year lived there. Standing still without feeling stuck. That sense of hovering shows up in Chaand. The song doesn’t rush toward answers. It circles absence, lets quiet moments stretch. Lines about simply being felt close to how many of my days passed. There were nights when I stayed awake not out of anxiety, but because I didn’t feel the need to escape my own thoughts. Nothing needed fixing. Nothing needed naming. That was new. Then there were stretches that felt repetitive in the worst way. Old doubts resurfaced. Habits I thought I’d outgrown came back without embarrassment. I caught myself having the same internal conversations, almost word-for-word. Gulnava mirrors that looping perfectly. It doesn’t disguise repetition. It leans into it. Listening felt like recognising a pattern instead of trying to outpace it.
Earlier versions of me would’ve panicked. This year, I mostly stayed. I didn’t fix much. I didn’t reinvent myself. I just didn’t disappear when things felt messy. The repetition didn’t stop, but it softened. Like rings forming quietly inside a tree, something was building even when it didn’t look impressive. Somewhere around the middle, something opened up. Not a breakthrough. Not a moment worth announcing. Just an ordinary day where I wasn’t waiting for it to end. I wasn’t narrating my mood or bracing for it to vanish. Amaltas captures that feeling best. The song opens gently, without fanfare. It doesn’t peak. It settles. That phase felt like that. A private sense of enough.
Toward the end of the year, I started noticing exits. Quietly. Certain routines, spaces, and versions of myself began to feel slightly restrictive. Not wrong. Just tight. Sone Ki Chidiya holds that tension well. The bird imagery isn’t about escape so much as readiness. Wings tested, not yet used. I didn’t leave everything I thought about leaving. I just noticed the doors. I checked whether movement was possible. It was. The Amaltas tree eventually sheds its flowers. The yellow doesn’t last forever. But that doesn’t undo the bloom. It completes it. That impermanence mattered. Not every phase is meant to be extended. Some arrive, do their work, and pass. This album doesn’t feel like a transformation story. It feels like a record of attention. Of pauses. Of repetition. Of warmth that shows up without warning. I didn’t become louder or more decisive this year. I became better at noticing when something mattered.
Like the Amaltas, I learned that looking unchanged isn’t the same as being stagnant. And when colour finally appears, it doesn’t need explanation. It just needs to be seen.