At great expense, a massive bridge — now commonly known as the Sea Link — was being constructed to join the midtown enclave of Bandra to the southern tip of the city. This was not a one-off. Across the country, roads were being built. Villages were getting access to water and power. We Indians were now one of the largest consumers of cellphones in the world. And the Right to Information Act was being used to make government officials accountable for their actions (and inactions).

In spite of all the rumors of shoddy infrastructure and insidious corruption, with my boots on the ground, it appeared to me a healthy, hopeful time to return to India.

I was in my 20s at the time, and I thought a lot about what it meant to be a “young person in India.” I was a part of our largest demographic (over half of the nation is under age 25). This fact was billed as something attractive by the liberal press. Although later I came to think more deeply about the other things we also associate with youth — bad credit, for instance, and binge drinking — for the moment, inexperience and healthy knees formed an exciting counterpoint to the traditional Indian veneration of old age and senility (our incumbent prime minister, Manmohan Singh, is now past 80). Youth, the new malls told me, was king. To fit in, I even bought a pair of jogging track pants. I almost bought a hoodie, too.

I’m in my 30s now — still young, yet old enough to be fabulously bitter. When I go out now, the talk at the bars is about which Maldivian island is best for diving. People in Mumbai say they want to get out of the “slum capital of the universe.” They want to go deep-sea diving instead. I’m told I’m part of India’s privileged elite, the powerful, unconscionable ruling class that says in public, “Actually, get four bottles of that red.” It’s a little like being stuck in a Bret Easton Ellis novel, where the protagonist orders chai after a night spent on Special K. With this lot of new friends I sometimes cruise down the now-completed Sea Link, all the while listening to the Icelandic rock band Sigur Ros, which my friends claim “speaks to their pain.”

Though rarely used, the full name of the bridge is the Rajiv Gandhi Sea Link, so called for the former prime minister, who was assassinated in 1991. A few weeks ago, Rajiv Gandhi’s son, Rahul, publicly criticized legislation supported by his party, the Indian National Congress, that would allow legislators convicted of crimes to seek public office. Regretting his public outburst, the former hope for change in India said that his mother, Sonia, had pointed out that his choice of words to denounce the ordinance — “complete nonsense” — was strong. “But I am young,” he countered (he is already in his 40s, although in Indian politics, 81 is when you get your driving permit).