Third places, or at least the term, has regained popularity over the last year on social media. Certainly as a movement against the excessive digitalisation of our lives, and the capitalisation of everything else. It’s aesthetic is set. It’s the coffee shop with the perfect armchair, the library with the silent hum, the co-working space that buzzes with purpose. We seek them out, often with an almost architectural intention, curated for a specific mood or a fleeting trend. They are places built to be third places: constructed, branded, and ever-changing. But in our quest for these modern, polished spaces, we often forget the original ones, the ones that become a part of us organically, without ever trying.
These are the heritage establishments of our small towns and cities, the local legacies that have stood the test of time. They aren’t designed with a focus group in mind. Their decor is less a statement and more a fossil record, each scratch on the table and faded poster telling a story of decades. They are the neighborhood bar with the sticky floor, the corner cafe that smells perpetually of old coffee and fresh rain, the greasy spoon diner where the same people sit at the same tables every day. They are the addas: the places so deeply woven into the fabric of a community that their absence would feel like a limb was missing.
I recently found myself back at a bar in Mumbai’s Andheri West. Tap. It’s a place I frequented a decade ago, back when my life was a chaotic mix of college classes, endless dreams, and the naive certainty that everything was possible. Stepping inside felt less like entering a room and more like stepping into a time capsule. The music wasn’t a nostalgic playlist curated for a theme night; it was the same old songs, the ones that were just part of the air back then. The decor, the vibe, even the un-self-conscious ease of the regulars: it was all there, preserved in amber.
Watching older people freely enjoying this space, I was struck by a powerful realization. These places are like soft, underappreciated anchors in our ever-changing lives. They aren’t just serving drinks or food; they’re holding a place for a version of us that might otherwise fade into memory. They capture who we were at a certain age, a certain moment. To revisit them is like smelling that old, familiar scent again: a forgotten perfume, a dusty book: that instantly pulls you back. For a moment, you’re not the person with mortgages and responsibilities. You are again that young, hopeful, optimistic, and yes, even romantic person you were in your early 20s.
Beyond the city’s hum, in my parents’ native village, there are places that have survived not just my lifetime, but a generation before me. They are the simple tea shop where my grandfather used to gather with his friends, the tailor’s tiny storefront where my father’s first school uniform was stitched, the dusty general store that still stocks the same brands of biscuits and soap. These are not just businesses; they are monuments to continuity. Their existence is a quiet defiance of a world that glorifies constant change and the pursuit of “progress” at any cost. It’s a testament to the sacrifice of those who chose to stay behind, to steward these establishments rather than constantly move away for bigger cities and shinier opportunities. They have, in a way, chosen a different kind of life: one where the measure of success isn’t about how far you’ve come, but about how deeply you are rooted. This unforced, almost stubborn endurance adds an immeasurable layer of specialness to these third places. They are not merely time capsules; they are living testaments to the enduring spirit of community, and the profound, underappreciated value of a legacy built not just to last, but to hold a memory for those who have moved on.
The value of these local legacies isn’t just in their history, but in their unwavering constancy. While our modern third places chase the next big thing, these original ones simply endure. They don’t try to be anything they’re not. They hold a quiet, steadfast power, a sort of silent promise that some things, even when the world spins madly on, will remain the same. And in that simple act of remaining, they offer a priceless gift: a fleeting moment to reconnect with the most essential parts of ourselves, the parts we were before the world told us who we had to be.