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Stories

The City that Refused to be Found

By Rabiya Rehman

From Public Domain

Rim and I decided that it was for the best that we pinned Thursday as the day we commemorated change. Rim said it carried value, that good deeds showed exponential impacts on Thursdays. I was always a sceptic, but I also loved to play along with her antics, believing that maybe her beliefs carried, if nothing, than at least unwavering faith. Like a wild moth that circumambulates light bulbs, I liked hovering around people with warmth in their convictions, even if I didn’t feel the heat myself.

That Thursday, with Lahore’s weather melting our bags and shoes, we took an Uber to the centre of the city. Sweating and stumbling under the weight of books, we had decided that the world needed our attention. Particularly the newer lot;  simple, untouched, sensitive kids, who were victims of a declining reading culture. Our project was simple. Revive the ancient literatures of our land and encourage youngsters to read Urdu, Punjabi, Sindhi, Pashto, Siraiki writings. It was a social action project, tinted strongly with the pressing need to fulfil our community service hours, get our undergrad degrees, and leave the country for good.

Our Uber halted on a wayward road and the Google Maps app on my cell phone pinged. Wiping my brows, I looked tiredly at the man sitting in the driving seat with cheap, tinted shades. Rim was already getting out, pulling out cartons. I followed, paying the man his due, and straightening my sweat-drained kurti[1]. The uber hurried by, leaving us alone on a deserted road, paralleled by a graveyard. A man spraying roses with ether sat outside. The graveyard looked empty. The dead was left to their accord in the unflinching heat, even mosquitos seemed suspended mid-air.

We looked around and couldn’t see the library we were looking for. Aside from an occasional car passing by, hardly any signs of life were visible, let alone a signboard. The man with the roses followed our movement, his eyes trailing us with an intent too steady to be casual.

Rim jogged to him. Stooping low to match his gaze, she inquired, “Baba jee[2], is there a library close by?”

The man stared back and with a disfigured thumb pointed to her back. A tomb-like structure, which we ignored for some kind of local monument, stood stall and decaying in the centre of a park. It had caricatures of half-fairies, half-children painted on it. Beneath it were some quotes from popular Urdu poems that the harsh heat of Lahore had eroded.

“Umm, that’s the library?”

“I think so.” Rim said with a quizzed expression. “Let’s walk closer to see the main entrance. I can hardly see anything from this side of the road.”

The tomb indeed had a heavy polished brass door which contrasted sharply with the rotting situation of its grey structure. I pulled at the door and we stumbled inside an elaborate, red-carpeted, and red-walled hall. The woman behind the desk peeked as soon as Rim entered.

The room was beautiful, with landscape paintings of old Lahore and the river Ravi. Air conditioner blasted at full speed, and the old hum of different electronics created a soothing and numbing atmosphere. I could feel my shirt drying as the woman crossed the hall towards us, her red dupatta[3] following her trail.

“My bachas[4], what brings you hear in this heat? It’s an old library, are you looking for some antique books?”

She wore red chipping nail paint which emphasized the thinness of her dark hands. Old but strangely young, the woman fixed her silky drape, staring at us with glassy eyes.

“We got your address… our university’s administration gave it to us. Umm… they said you work with students who are particularly interested in the development of local literatures?” I responded, still-focusing on her hands.

“Yes. We have a separate office for that. Bacha, you’re at the wrong place. We relocated our main office a few months ago. It’s not far from here.”

While the woman spoke, Rim had walked to the furthest end of the library. Only her hunched back remained visible, focused on something out of my sight.

“Alright, that sounds good. Can you please give me the address of the main office?”

“Sure, and call your friend back. Visitors are not allowed today.”

I turned a bit and whisper-shouted, “Rim, let’s go!”

Rim didn’t look back and as I walked closer to her, I made out a rugged looking pit in the middle of the library floor. I crossed the distance, careful not to disturb the silence that clung to every surface like a curse. Inside the pit were a few books, some miniatures paintings, plastic cars, and three children with pale, almost colourless hair, sleeping peacefully in the sunken space. Such was the hush that not even an inch of their hair moved. We stared at their faces quietly. An eeriness had quietly descended the hall. The silence was broken by a soft hand on my shoulder.

“I said no visitors today, bacha.”

The woman’s voice came from behind. My conscious jolted as I felt her hand melting on my shoulder. I turned around and hurried out the door, with Rim on my heels. Before the door was completely closed, we saw the woman bent down, staring at the pit, her silk dupatta quietly trailing down her side. The image was like a water-painting, old, blistered, and grotesque.

“That was strange.” I breathed the moment the sun blared at us again.

“I know, Biya, that woman is like a hundred years old. Who dresses up like that at a hundred years old?”

“I don’t know, she appeared… timeless.”

“Yeah, she made me uncomfortable.” Rim shuddered and rubbed her shoulders. “Anyways, it’s still mid-day. I think we better hurry to that office. I promised Ammi[5] that I’ll come home early today.”

“Let’s go. Let’s walk. I don’t see any rikshaw or Uber passing.”

We walked passed the graveyard. Soon, as our shadows began to lengthen, we embarked a highway. Recognising it immediately, we understood that now we were close to a boulevard.

I jogged and Rim followed pursuit. My sneakers were pinching at my toes, and the sun grew larger and larger. We walked with cartons pulling our shoulders down. In a few minutes we were at the entrance of a colony.

“Okay, so Google says five more minutes. You aren’t dehydrated, right?” I asked Rim, staring at her pale face with concern.

“Ah… I am fine, I think. Lets just keep moving.”

We moved further until my phone pinged again. The notification showed that we had arrived at our location. I looked around. The place seemed abandoned, except huge mansions lined each side of the street. It was staggering, coming from a less developed area of Lahore, it always took me by surprise that houses could be so extravagant. Lush, elaborate lawns, freshly-polished doors, razor wires that covered kilometres of walls, and shiny marble which covered every inch of the buildings. We walked around the silent place, looking for signs of life. Not a single person was in sight.

We walked slowly, looking at the mansions in awe. Most gates were open, with expensive cars lining porches. A particular mansion had a driveway as big as the distance we had walked from the library. The house only appeared like a glimmer in distance. It had a glass structure at the entrance, fifteen foot tall and thirty feet wide. From what we could see, it was filled to the mouth with paintings, statues, and old artifacts.

“I have never been here before, Biya, and I was born in this city!”

“Same, but why is it so abandoned?”

“That’s what I was wondering. People have their BMW’s and Bugatti’s parked with gates wide open. There isn’t a guard in sight.”

“But where’s the office?”

“Let me check.”

Google Maps pointed at a house on the right. It stood forlorn, the only one on the right of that particular block. The raven-coloured gate was only slightly ajar. I pointed towards it and Rim pushed the gate with a slight force. It swayed easily, uncovering a pathway lined with wild cactus and primroses.

We cautiously walked the path. The house loomed before us, exhaling and inhaling with our every step. Its windows were tainted, reminding me of someone who hadn’t slept in years. Like the rest of the colony, there was a sense of restlessness in the air that cut through our skin like knife. While the house appeared pristine at first glance, a deeper look revealed cracks that ran through like capillaries in sea-green coloured walls. Bougainvillea climbed the side pillars and bloomed furiously, as if trying to revive a place that had stopped expecting visitors. I felt uncomfortable and tugged at Rim’s sleeve anxiously.

Under my touch, Rim froze.

“Biya”, she whispered, clutching my arm.

I looked up.

There, on one of the walls, a barred window gleamed with peeling paint. A woman was standing there. She was waving; slowly, deliberately. Like a pendulum of an old grandfather clock. She swayed, one hand clutching the bars of the window. It was ominous. Her dark gown fluttered faintly with the breeze.

I slightly raised my arm, unsure how to respond. Was this a greeting?

Before we could understand, a loud metallic clatter filled the air suddenly. Dogs barked viciously in a fit of madness. We spun around, trying to look for the noise. The place was empty. From the main door, a man burst forth. His shirt stained, barefoot and eyes bloodshot, he ran towards us. As he came closer, time stood slow. The hollowness of his eyes appeared like sunken pits in a dried riverbed. His hair screamed past air the closer he moved.

“Who are you? Who sent you?” He exploded, spitting with rage.

 “This is a private property! Don’t you dare come here! Go back! Go back!”

I let out a startled yelp and felt blood leaving my feet. Rim grabbed my arm and turned, sprinting down the gravel path as the man’s shouting mixed with the ear-splitting barking. The cactus needles brushed our clothes as we half-ran, half-stumbled. The gate we had nudged open without a second thought now felt like an exit from a spider’s web. Before we left, my eyes saw a trembling cage covered with a moth covered cotton sheet.

Rim ran for a long time, dragging me along. Reaching the main road again, panting, books rustling inside the carton, she stopped. Her arms were shaking. She stopped and looked at me nervously. In what sounded like a hysterical laugh, she breathed, trying to regain her senses.

“Biya, that wasn’t the office.” Rim said, exhaling.

No brainer, I thought. The sun was now trying to spin westwards, bleeding into the smoggy, dry sky of Lahore. Rim and I dragged ourselves, noticing our shadows getting longer and longer. We walked back to the colony, stopping at a office which read “Samia Wellness and Fertility Centre”. We decided to flag down a rickshaw. Rim was now oddly quiet, and my throat felt like it was scratched with sandpaper.

“Some local rickshaw-wala might be familiar with the office. I don’t have the energy to walk and this place seems too cursed for random exploration.”

Rim silently nodded, too exhausted to share her thoughts. The rickshaw stopped in front of us.

“Where to, beti[6]?” the driver asked, as I again fumbled with my cell phone and gave him the address to the office. The Google Maps app kept acting up, rerouting like a compass held close to a magnet.

“Just take us to this stop,” I said, waving the screen in his face.

The rickshaw sputtered, coughing like a chain-smoker and off we went. We looked outside carefully, tracking the map with the roads that passed by. We passed the graveyard again. The man who ether-sprayed roses had gone. Five minutes later, the driver halted and pointed outside.

“Beti, this is it. Fertility Center. It will be 300 rupees.”

We blinked and looked outside. We were at the fertility centre again. Fresh paint covered the building and the sun was now casting orange hues. Rim and I exchanged a look.

“Bhai[7], are you playing tricks with us? You got us back to the same place!”

“This is the location you gave me,” the man shrugged with obvious irritation.

“That’s not where we want to go,” Rim cried in frusruration.

The man shrugged again, clearly uninterested in our predicament.

We decided to give it another try. Rebooted the app and entered the address. The same pin drop appeared.

“Let’s just do one more round,” Rim told the driver.

We took another round. Moving in circles, again passing the neighbourhood, the library, and the graveyard. We passed the same mansions. Same roads. The rickshaw stopped again.

It was the same fertility centre. The same man who sat outside the pharmacy holding a file looked at us with amused suspicion.

“This place is cursed”, Rim shouted.

We got off the rickshaw, paid and shooed the driver away, and decided to walk again.

“Google thinks our project is a lost cause.” I said quietly.

It was as if the old city of Ravi was itself draining us, trapping us in a loop of mythic punishment, reflecting its forgotten literatures, the very stories we aimed to revive.

This time we let instinct lead, trying to follow the directions our university’s management had told Rim verbally. Soon, the road of the fertility centre opened up into quitter rows of offices. One of them read in small plaque: “Pakistan’s Centre for Indigenous Literatures”.

Rim jumped and placed a hand over her mouth. “That’s it! This is the office!”

I knocked on the door carefully, half expecting another madman or a ghost to burst forth and envelope us.

However, this time, a middle-aged man with a plastic clipboard opened the gate and looked stratled at our sweaty and wild-eyed state.

“Umm, the volunteers, I presume?”

“Yes.” I replied with a pause and we both entered.

During our meeting, the lady in charge said something that stuck with me through many years. She shared the history of her organisation, which deeply intertwined with the history of Lahore. She remarked that Pakistan is a land of promise, but lands have a way of oozing decay. You can build highways, install fancy street lights, and create grand elaborate structures, but the degeneration, the last faltering breath of a city rampant with the destruction of ideology, of morality, and of faith, that cannot be swept under covers. It stares back from the layers of funds and aids thrown at it. So, you may close your eyes, put cotton in your ears, and even numb your hands, but the horrors of a city destroyed by its own people never really become silent.

(Disclaimer: The opinions expressed are solely that of the author and not of Borderless Journal.)

[1] A short shirt cut like a kurta, but often short sleeved

[2] A polite term to address an older man

[3] A scarf or veil

[4] Children

[5] Mother

[6] Daughter

[7] Brother

Rabiya Rehman is a Staff Editor for Chartium, and the Poetry Feedback Assistant at ECHO Review. She is an English Literature grad student based in Pakistan, a place known for its centuries-old tradition of Sufi poetry and searching questions about the self. Her research and interests lie in speculative fiction and the ways stories shape both culture and selfhood.

PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL

Click here to access Wild Winds: The Borderless Anthology of Poems

Click here to access the Borderless anthology, Monalisa No Longer Smiles

Categories
Excerpt

Burnout Highway

Title: Burnout Highway

Author: Anmol Diddan

The Education System

Think about a time when you felt stuck or stifled with the options that your professional path presented. Do you remember your general thoughts and emotions at the time? What expectations did you have when you started on that path? Do you wish you could go back and change some choices you made along the way?

I’ve felt this “stuckness” many times through the various stages of my career as a generalist, evaluating different paths, most recently when I secured permanent residency in the US after a 14-month hiatus of being unable to work in America. I was faced with the choice of taking my career in a different direction or trying to rejoin the corporate path where I left off.

During such ponderings, I’ve usually been able to break my feelings down into an expectations versus reality equation. While I’m sure that isn’t the most insightful thing you’ve heard, think about why the mismatch between that expectation and reality might have occurred in your own life. It is because the expectations you had of your path in two, five, ten, or twenty years, and the reality of that path, in terms of your own perception of reward and fulfillment, don’t match. Thinking of your life as a predefined path, with milestones and comparisons, makes you constantly ponder over this existential expectation versus reality equation, steeped in arbitrary milestones. The challenge, especially in this modern world obsessed with exceptionalism, is that our paths offer the false promise of infinite possibility and underestimate the reality of finite choices.

The Pressure to be on a Path

Remember that favorite interview question we’ve all asked or been asked: Where do you see yourself in five years?

Now think about yourself, your industry, or the job you did five years ago. Has all of that changed beyond recognition? The job I did as recently as 2016 is now basically done by a button. Software developers, who commanded the highest-paying jobs till only a few years ago, are being rapidly challenged by AI or scrambling to become AI engineers, reduced to supervisory roles. Subscriptions as a primary business model, for example, was only adopted in the last five years or so. AI wasn’t a word in the public consciousness till 2023, and today, we’re told we should let it run our lives, from making us breakfast to writing our resumes and picking candidates for jobs!

So, if companies themselves do not know their paths, why is there that pressure on individuals? Based on my own experience, that interview question itself is ill-advised. Someone who is extremely sure of their path, despite knowing how rapidly their context may evolve, is already a bit stifled.

This stifling, myopic path, especially if you’re not fulfilled by it, again brings with it a sense of constant jadedness and exhaustion. It is that exhaustion, coupled with a perceived lack of agency over your path, that eventually manifests as full-blown burnout. Being flexible and adaptable, and rebuilding agency over your own skills are key to building long-term careers today, especially in a time when the AI, internet, and gig economy is truly enabling infinite possibilities at an individual level.

While human beings need structure in their lives, society starts laying out that structure for us from the moment we barely attain consciousness, not leaving too much room for exploration. Remember that question of what you wanted to be when you grew up? I’m guilty of asking this question myself to my nine-year-old niece. She insists she wants to be a vet, which is adorable. I think I wanted to be a cricketer back then. Those questions gave me and my niece structure to explore our personalities, but had I stuck to that path, given the context of my life (my state didn’t even have a team back then), I probably wouldn’t have made a career out of it!

As a 16-year-old, I could have never imagined living in four countries, traveling to over 60 countries marrying an American woman, and attaining financial independence, all before or around 30 years of age. And I am so glad I had the openness to explore divergent paths while still committing to a fairly traditional corporate path. Metaphorically speaking, I knew that I wanted to sail west in the Atlantic, but I was open to landing in Brazil, Mexico, the US, or Canada. That openness has enabled me to start afresh, after 11 years at Google, through this book, and through a coaching and workplace culture consultancy, WideWorldView.com, while continuing to positively engage with the corporate world.

While predefined paths are great to give our expeditions structure, we still need to adjust our sails as per the direction of the winds and currents. As a society, we are too eager to forcefit people into paths, generally very early in life. Thinking about your life and identity as one thing or one path stifles you from exploring all other potentially more fulfilling identities. Despite the rapid changes in societal structures and expectations, the corporate ladder is still largely not set up for individuals to be able to adjust their sails to changing winds, without making radical shifts in course. What if these paths that society puts us on and we often unquestionably follow weren’t meant for us at all?

What if we followed those paths because we constantly felt a stifling opportunity cost? What if those paths were designed to stifle innovation and exploration at a personal level? And what if the expectations our paths set for us were never based in reality? Who made us feel that these paths were the only ones we had? The answer is largely rooted in our modern education system, which is designed to prioritize “getting a job” over self-discovery.

ABOUT THE BOOK

You know the feeling: chronic workplace stress along with a nagging sense of ineffectiveness. That’s burnout. Burnout Highway demystifies this increasingly collective suffering by exploring the larger context that runs all our lives—the systems within which we make decisions, the milestones we were taught to desire, and the feelings of fulfillment we thought they would provide.

From pursuing grades and achievements to landing ‘dream jobs,’ the India Shining generation was promised a clear and straightforward path to success. However, this journey can feel exhausting, especially with India ranking among the countries with the longest working hours and the highest rates of burnout.

Anmol examines how societal conditioning, corporate ladder dynamics, and economic pressures influence our work and presents readers with a systematic framework for navigating the challenges of burnout while fostering the development of fulfilling and emotionally sustainable careers. This is an invitation to prioritize work that aligns with your values and addresses your emotional well-being, ultimately helping you break the cycle of burnout.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Anmol Diddan is an advocate for emotionally sustainable careers and the founder of World Wide View. Raised Sikh in the complex geopolitics of the Northeast, Anmol spent his early years in Shillong before moving to Mumbai at sixteen to study Economics; an experience that exposed him to both the promise and pressure of ambition in modern India. His thirst for learning through experiences led him to a global career in behavioural and cultural research, working with Google across India, Ireland, Singapore, and the United States. Now based in New York City, he draws on his dynamic background to explore how the intersection of economics, psychology, and culture affects all our lives, with a focus on wellbeing in the modern workplace. He works 1:1 to help professionals tackle burnout and career transitions, all across the world.

PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL

Click here to access Wild Winds: The Borderless Anthology of Poems

Click here to access the Borderless anthology, Monalisa No Longer Smiles

Categories
Slices from Life

Hooked for Life and Beyond…

By Ravi Shankar

I was hooked! It was my first exposure to a computer though I had read about these in the newspapers and seen them on television. I think it was a Spectrum personal computer popular in the 1980s. My friend, Sanjay and I did a few simple tasks and played a few games on the computer. The games of the 80’s were slow and clunky by today’s standards. In those days however they were interesting and enticing. BASIC was the most popular computer language then. We also had COBOL and a few others. My good friend, Sanjay Mhatre was a bibliophile and a free thinker, and I often used to visit his place and borrow from his vast book collection. However, even in the 1980s there was uneasiness and opposition to computers and the fear that it would replace people and lead to mass unemployment was often mentioned.

The rise of information technology (IT) and the important role to be played by Indian companies was still in the future. I expect artificial intelligence (AI) will also open new jobs in the future. At my medical college in Thrissur, Kerala, India computers were still rare. Communist Kerala had a love-hate relationship with computers and technology. Maharashtra (a western Indian state) was an early adopter of computers, and my tenth- and twelfth-mark sheets were computerised while my MBBS ones were handwritten. During my postgraduation at Chandigarh, computers gained prominence in our conversations. Our head of the department was gracious enough to offer the services of his secretary for typing our research manuscripts when she was free. The only other option was to pay for the service from outside providers. In those days WordStar and WordPerfect dominated word processing. 

Creating slides for presentations was a challenge. LCD projectors were not available, and we had to create physical slides with cardboard mounting. The slides were created on early versions of PowerPoint and photographed using a camera to create the physical ones. My co-guide, Dr Anil Grover (then a cardiologist) at Postgraduate Institute (PGI), Chandigarh mentioned how computers will become increasingly common and encouraged me to learn the Microsoft package of Word, PowerPoint, and Excel. PGI also started offering email facility on a limited basis. You had to write down the details of your email and take it to the IT section who will send your message. We had modems then, which took a while to connect and made a series of sounds with flashing lights while connecting to the internet.

In Pokhara, Nepal at the beginning of the twenty-first century, internet was still a luxury. Manipal College of Medical Sciences used to charge 10 Nepalese rupees to send a message. Faculty could type their message in Outlook and twice a day, the IT person would send and receive messages. In those days, a floppy disk was the most common external storage device, and I soon had a large and colourful collection of floppies. Floppies were not always reliable and sometimes the data on them could not be read. CD-ROMs were another storage device, but CD writers never became commonplace. At Mahendra Pul in the heart of Pokhara, a new cybercafé came up in the early 2000s offering internet browsing at 150 Nepalese rupees per hour. Compared to what we were previously paying, this was a steal!

The college also had an LCD projector though it was not commonly used by faculty members for teaching-learning. This was a large and clunky device. Earlier versions often had compatibility issues. You create your slides and hope for the best. These may or may not open on the laptop and may or may not be projected. One had to have a backup of the lecture on overhead projector (OHP) transparencies, just in case. We did not yet have easy access to computers or laptops. This came only later when the United States Pharmacopeia (USP) set up a drug information and pharmacovigilance centre at the teaching hospital. We got two excellent Dell computers, and the hospital provided us with internet.

The early computers were slow with a big, bulky, and heavy cathode ray screen. They had a blinking cursor and words appeared slowly after typing. The Hollywood movie, You’ve Got Mail (1998), follows the romance between Meg Ryan and Tom Hanks developed through email. The movie is a good introduction to the early days of the internet.  

We had purchased a home desktop computer in 2001 or 2002. This purchase was a financial disaster. The computer required frequent repairs and drained our finances. Google launched its beta version of email, Gmail in 2004, and I was one of the early adapters. I became a fan of Gmail right from the start. It offered significant advantages over the then dominant Hotmail, Yahoo mail and Rediff mail. The storage was larger and there was no need to delete your old emails. Kist Medical College in Lalitpur, Nepal had purchased Dell desktop computers, and these were among the best ones I had used. Fast and responsive with good memory and speed. These had LCD monitors and looked sleek and modern.  

Computer technology has made significant advances. I read that if cars had made similar advances to computers we could drive to the moon and back on a litre of gasoline. Chips started getting smaller and more powerful and are today fought over by the global technology superpowers. A variety of online applications started making their appearance with the spread of the internet. Some of these eventually became the internet giants of today. In India, internet became widely available, and the costs dropped significantly. Mobile technology also made dramatic advances. In India most people access the internet and carry out online tasks using their mobile phones. For around 12000 Indian rupees today you can get a decent mid-range phone. Today mobiles in the palm of your hands have greater processing power than the giants of the 1950s and 1960s. I remember reading a comic strip where a visitor from the future time travels to the present. He laughs on seeing the supercomputer, the most powerful one on earth. When asked why he shows a small ball and introduces it as a computer from his time with much greater processing power than the humungous supercomputer.

One of the major advances has been cloud computing and cloud services. We have Chromebooks that work on web-based applications and needs the internet to do things. Both Google and Microsoft offer a range of services including storage, meetings, messaging, and applications for text, presentations, and calculations. AI is now an integral part of applications. PowerPoint offers the designer option for slides and creates stunning backgrounds. I recently attended a workshop on Copilot, the AI support software from Microsoft that is fully integrated into all their applications. I like the transcribing option for interviews and focus groups offered by Teams and later by Zoom and this makes my life as a researcher easier.

Star Trek, Futuristic computing

When I was growing up, I had no clue about what would soon become commonplace. The world wide web, the ability to browse libraries and art collections, video conferencing, online work processes, applying for government and other services online, online fund transfer and remittance are now at our fingertips. The COVID pandemic shifted a lot of learning and even assessment online. Presently we mainly interact with computers using a keyboard. I am a fan of the sci-fi series, Star Trek, where people interact with computers mainly using their voice. Voice commands are already available and  steadily improving.

I was slow getting into social media. Their judicious use is to be recommended. Facebook keeps me updated on what my friends, acquaintances and former students are doing. LinkedIn is the professional face I present to the world, Twitter (now X) is a concise way to stay connected and YouTube is a major source of entertainment. Computers have changed our life for ever. At a basic level these are based on the flow of electrons through circuits and on the pioneering work in atomic physics done at the start of the twentieth century.

The last three decades have seen developments and changes at unimaginable speed. Who knows what the next three will bring? Will progress continue at an ever-accelerating pace or will we eventually hit a roadblock? We may have to wait for Father Time to provide the answers!

Dr. P Ravi Shankar is a faculty member at the IMU Centre for Education (ICE), International Medical University, Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia. He enjoys traveling and is a creative writer and photographer.

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PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL

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Categories
Stories

Till Life Do Us Part

By Devraj Singh Kalsi

Courtesy: Creative Commons

The Duggals had received their first invitation to attend a grand reception organised to celebrate the divorce of Upasana Malhotra, the only daughter of a reputed steel magnate diversifying into organic agribusiness. Having lived in the same colony before fortune ferried the Malhotras away from the middle-class neighbourhood to a posh locality teeming with industrialists, the Duggals were the only family they shared close ties with decades ago. The same affection remained in place even though their visits happened only on special occasions. So, it was a surprise for the Duggals to be invited again after three years to the same household where they had gone to bless the couple exchanging vows for continuing wedded for life.  

More startling was that the girl possessed the courage to throw a lavish party, inviting distinguished guests who came to her wedding party to re-appear, bless and congratulate her again for her decision to leave the Poddar surname attached in haste. After a breezy romantic courtship that blossomed in a top-notch US university campus, the much-talked-about marriage solemnised three summers ago hurtled to a premature end. The Duggals knew it was one of her crazy ideas to celebrate the mutual separation ostentatiously and showcase the event for public consumption, with attendees looking baffled about how they should behave on her D-day (read Divorce Day). 

As the Duggals were flabbergasted, they sought the help from Google to find out more about such parties. They could not find ample content to clarify their doubts, so they sought help from their tech-savvy son, Shamsher Duggal, who called up an event manager friend to dig up details about divorce parties. She said there were no separate rules to follow, and it was just held the way marriage parties are held, with much scope to innovate for the couple. The guests were expected to maintain the usual decorum and focus on wine, food and music to celebrate the bright future for the divorcees. Shamsher asked his parents to keep the Charh di Kala[1]approach in mind, to calibrate themselves with the equivalent of joie de vivre: stay indulgent, in high spirits to mint fresh memories of fun and enjoyment.  

Mr Duggal kept gazing at the invitation card delivered by courier, running his podgy fingers on the embossed letters. It was fancier than any marriage invitation card. The gold-plated card glittered, perhaps indicating the glittering future after the mutual separation that was to be formalised at an auspicious hour. The names of the couple and their families were mentioned along with the programme schedule, with the Lord’s name emblazoned on it to suggest this separation was being formalised with divine blessings, to thank Him for mercy and saving the couple from a boring life together. 

Freedom at midnight is always good as it heralds a new dawn. The midnight timeline for the divorce echoed in a similar strain. The couple would wake to a new life of freedom after their tryst with matrimony. The big idea behind the invitation was to come and bless the separating couple with tons of happiness in their post-divorce lives. The creative note was penned by a professional copywriter who gave it a spin and hyped it to such an extent that it seemed missing this event would be the biggest blunder for couples who had experienced the beautiful side of getting hitched but not the equally, if not more, wonderful side of getting ditched. When Mrs Duggal picked it up to read, those emotional lines struck a chord with her and filled the gaps in their marriage. She looked at divorce through the prism of optimism.  

Mr Duggal, yet to recover from the initial shock of being invited to attend the divorce party, found it challenging to customise his expressions to suit the occasion, to look happy like he did when Upasana married this guy three years ago. He remembered sharing with relatives and friends the video clip featuring their energetic Bhangra dance to show how charged they were as a doting, retired couple.   

“Do you think we are expected to bless them again? Isn’t it a farce? Grooving and smiling would be tough, isn’t it? Those vivid memories of blessing her would haunt me. What is the need to hold this function? What are they trying to prove? Mocking at the institution of marriage? Don’t you think they are making a grand show of putting up a brave face when misfortune looms large? Check the program list. Leading pop singers from the film world are going to perform live,” Mr Duggal went hammer and tongs.

“They are not going to sing sad songs of separation. Not your favourite dard bhare geet. They wish to celebrate divorce as a happy occasion – the harbinger of good times. A peppy show loaded with dance and masti[2]. Frankly, I am impressed with her plan, no matter what you say. Chalo[3], let’s not waste time. Choose my dress and matching jewellery, so much to do. Stop brooding and decide which suit you want to wear or buy something traditional,” Mrs Duggal showed her positive frame of mind for the special event they were privileged to attend. Finally, she would have something unique to discuss at her kitty party next week.

Mr Duggal was not in high spirits, unlike his wife who got another opportunity to look fabulous and interact with the upwardly mobile guests she had met at Upasana’s theme wedding. When he mentioned the name of the sensational singer, Mrs Duggal slipped into dance mode, visualising it to be awesome.  

“Our blessings are mere formality; did not mean much the last time and it is not going to matter this time again,” Mr Duggal tried to get her back on a serious track.

“Oh Sardarji, come on, you know it is all like that. Do not ruin the fun part. They have entertainment. We ate a gourmet dinner last time. Expect the same this time. They are sweetly mocking the institution of marriage so let them do it. Relationships are like that only today. Here, we carry dead relationships on our shoulders and try to revive them instead of ending everything on a bitter-sweet note,” Mrs Duggal offered her worldview without sounding preachy.

“So, you mean our marriage can also go to the rocks one day? Our four decades of marriage can crumble,” Mr Duggal expressed concern, “In case you have such intent, do let me know a year in advance so I can prepare and plan my future, and get check-ups done to avoid cardiac arrest. But if you decide suddenly – just give me a slow disclosure so that the shock does not upset my weak but vital organs,” Mr Duggal pleaded with her in a lighter vein.  

“Now stop worrying about your fate and go and ask if Shamsher would join us,” Mrs Duggal tried to reduce his anxiety.  

“Has he ever been anywhere with us in the last ten years? No point asking and getting the same standard reply,” Mr Duggal furnished his bland refusal.  

“He was not asked to accompany us to Upasana’s wedding. They were friends in childhood. Maybe now you can ask if he…” Mrs Duggal tried to persuade him.

“You remember so much. Anyway, since you insist, I am seeking his presence. Did he complain he was not asked to go last time?” Mr Duggal asked with curiosity.

Mrs Duggal kept mum, waiting for him to understand something without words.

Mr Duggal went and knocked at his son’s frosted glass door and asked if he would like to go.

Instead of refusing, he said he had an important presentation that evening so he would stay home for the project.

“I told your Mummy you are not a party-loving guy, but she insisted I should ask you to join us. When will your mother understand you as I do?”

*

Mr Duggal rummaged the wardrobe looking for a suitable blazer and trailed a volley of queries after informing her that Shamsher was not joining them.

“Do you have any idea how we are going to behave there? I mean do we look sad or happy? I am bad at faking, you know that. Are you going to give them bouquets separately?” Mr Duggal fired a big one.   

“Not decided. But yes, better if we give one each separately. You give to Upasana, your missed Bahu[4]. And I will give her divorcee hubby. Don’t think so much. They are happy to heal this way, so why should we grudge? We are invited – go and enjoy. Be practical like them. Just chill,” Mrs Duggal gave sound advice to make him comfortable.  

Mr Duggal was not okay with this whole idea. He thought this was intended to make fun of marriage although his wife and son were on the same page in this matter and hailed it as a progressive step.

“I am clear I am not going to bless them again,” Mr Duggal stressed with raised eyebrows, “I know the Malhotras will be upset doing this tamasha[5]but Upasana is forcing them to stage this show.”  

“Whoever has planned it, at least some people got work, some organisers, catering guys, bartenders, and DJs. Money is flowing out of the tycoon’s coffers for a divorce party that is just like a farewell party. Touchwood, I am super excited. I am going to wear a silk Sharara[6], and diamond jewellery for the divorce party,” Mrs Duggal revealed her plans.

Shamsher joined their discussion late and cheered for his mother and persuaded her to buy a flashy suit for his father, maybe a tuxedo.

When Mrs Duggal mentioned this divorce party, none of her friends reacted with excitement as they were not invited. It was a matter of privilege for the Duggal family to be invited. Upasana liked Duggal Uncle when her father was not super-rich. As good family friends, Upasana bonded well with Duggal Uncle who gave her strong lessons to be independent and brave like a boy child. This gender parity thing was a gift from Duggal Uncle who wanted her to be free in her choices.

“You are the one who put those modern ideas in her at that young age,” Mrs Duggal accused her husband of being the real culprit.

There was no denying the fact that Mr Duggal never discriminated against based on gender and encouraged girls to follow their dreams. He had encouraged his sister to join the medical profession. Considering Upasana to be just like his own child, he gave her genuine advice as her father was busy expanding his business empire.

*

On the day of reception, the Duggals walked in, decked in their best. Upasana spotted them from a distance and walked down the aisle to receive them and hugged them after touching their feet. She had not forgotten the traditions. Mrs Duggal congratulated her for being bold enough to walk out of a loveless marriage based on presumptions. Citing this as the most probable reason, she went ahead with examples of women from her community separating fast. As they reached the dais where the florally decorated, chairs for the split couple were arranged, her ex-hubby greeted them with folded hands and shook hands with Mr Duggal who almost squeezed it in true Punjabi style, and his smile almost dried up under pressure.  

“Nice, you are leaving Upasana, not made for each other type actually,” Mr Duggal said to the former groom, Puneet Poddar while releasing his hand from his firm grip. Mrs Duggal offered him a bouquet of roses and congratulated him on his quick release from the marriage cell with a sardonic smile and an avancular peck on his chubby cheek.   

Trying to appreciate her sense of humour, Puneet Poddar reciprocated with a half-hearted smile and claimed it was his idea to throw a party and seconded by Upasana. “The real purpose behind this party is to meet you, guys. All those who attended our marriage got the invite to this party – from both sides. Our families loved this idea and gave the go-ahead to end it on a happy note,” Puneet explained briefly to the Duggals and guided them to settle in the front row seats on the other stage put up for the gala musical night.   

Mr Duggal wanted to meet the Malhotras first and asked him, “Where are your parents and in-laws?”

Mrs Duggal went to reserve the best seats for the music show while her husband continued the chat with Puneet Poddar who informed their parents that were together, formalising last-minute plans of setting up a new company abroad.

“Son and daughter are separating but the parents are forging a new bond?” Mr Duggal looked stunned.

“That is the beauty of our separation, Uncle. No bitterness. They remain friends and come closer while we call it over. They clicked as business partners, but we did not as partners. Simple as that.”  

“This is something unique, never heard of, dear, business interest supreme,” Mr Duggal admitted, “very practical, beta[7], loving it now.”  

“Honestly Uncle, we all are happy, we are beginning new lives,” Puneet Poddar asserted with a dash of confidence.

“Where did Upasana vanish? Let me find her.”

“Must be busy with her girl gang inside,” Puneet said coldly.

Guests started trooping in with gift hampers and the band of musicians arrived on the stage. Mr Duggal looked around and found the best whiskey.  

Contrary to Mr Duggal’s expectation of tearjerker numbers, sad songs of the Rafi-Lata-Kishore era being played out in a remix version, or some Ghalib ghazals, the band started jamming on peppy songs of freedom and carefree living and travelling the world. Perhaps that was the brief: celebrate freedom and free living. The dance floor rocked, as couples of all age groups began to waltz. The laser beams flash here and there to create colourful images of a happy crowd enjoying every moment of the party, with dozens of cameras zooming and capturing the party from various angles.

The couple that was breaking up could be spotted together on the stage, flanked by their parents for the last photo-op. The press guys went click, click, click.

Mr Malhotra held the mike and spoke with verve, “We are glad to have you all with us on this happy day, to wish the separating pair the best for their future lives as independent people in their solo journeys.”  

He gave it to Puneet to utter a few words, and he trundled out a stirring speech. “It was a wonderful journey of three years, and we realised this is all we had to share. No question of remarrying but remaining focused on living as free souls. Marriage is not fit for our nature and temperament. I am not marriage material. I guess we both have this trait in common. These three years have convinced us. There are many more like us who keep quiet and continue. Not us because we have choices. I was lucky to have Upasana who realised the same, and we gave each other the best gift possible. Freedom. If marriage was wrong, divorce is right.”  

Puneet Poddar won a legion of admirers with his speech, and the guests expected Upasana to say a few words to surpass him.  

Upasana picked it up from where he left, “Yeah right, marriages don’t have to be dysfunctional and then end in a split. Even apparently peaceful and stable marriages can end without raising a flutter. When beautiful things unfold in our lives, more beautiful than marriage that impedes and dilutes the experience, marriage should give way to that beautiful future we cannot share. Our lives cannot be beautiful together, not as much as our separate lives can be, and we realised it,” Upasana poured forth, “perhaps we come across as selfish, but if the sole focus of marriage is to make two people happy forever, we felt we were not going to make it as a couple. Better to part ways as friends who tried out marriage but thankfully did not suffer in it.”  

The thunderous applause for her fiery words paled everything else into insignificance and glorified their divorce.  

*

The priest who had come to perform their marriage rituals had come for the divorce. His presence was needed to bless them again for a new phase. His holy presence would be seen as auspicious for their divorce. After blessing them on stage, he came down and went to have his quota of snacks and drinks.

Mr Duggal bumped into him and held his arm, “Arrey[8], Sharma, where are you running and with what?”

 There was a glass of drink in his hand, and he claimed it was nothing but a cold drink.

“When did I say you are having anything else?” Mr Duggal quipped.

“Sardarji, the couple took the right decision,” the priest confessed, before taking a sip, “Their stars did not match, but I got paid extra to match everything. There is a defect in the birth chart and a big chance of a fatal accident if they remain married for five years. This is the real reason for the split, I am telling you. But anyway, it is a new experience for me. I am enjoying a divorce party for the first time at fifty-five. I have performed hundreds of marriages, and many couples split up in courts, but nobody tried this. Congratulations to their families, and hope this inspires more couples planning to split, to follow suit.”

Mr Duggal was not the superstitious type, and such disclosures did not cut much ice with him. Polishing off the drink, the priest went to relish paneer butter masala[9]and kulchas[10]while Mrs Duggal remained busy in the chaat[11] stalls and savoured scoops of gelato ice cream.  

The parents of the divorcing couple ate together while the pair was busy with their bosom friends. Everybody seemed to enjoy the evening, except for Mr Duggal who felt a tad remorseful as this was not what he was expecting to happen. Since everyone seemed happy, he had no reason to feel sad. Puneet was a nice man and what more do you need than a nice person as a life partner? He could not answer that for himself and realised nobody knew for sure what they wanted in life but knew only what they wanted at a particular stage of life.

The priest disappeared to gorge more kulchas while Mr Duggal set forth to take charge of his wife, who was careless regarding her sugar intake. She seemed to have enjoyed the sweets — all alone. With Mr Duggal reminding her of dietary restrictions, she lost the sense of freedom and almost threatened to leave him, “Stay away, or there will be two divorces today. Let me indulge in what I like.” Mrs Duggal made it resoundingly clear.

Mr Duggal felt scared of divorce at his advanced age and let her have her way. He went to listen to the music band singing some peppy chartbusters from across the world. Soon after, they wanted to leave but the divorcing couple and their parents were nowhere around. They moved out quickly without informing anyone except the priest who trailed behind them to the exit gate. Mr Malhotra was already at the gate when he saw them. He gave a warm hug and apologised for being tied up during the entire evening, “Thanks for coming, yaar[12], our friendship from Model Town days survives despite everything. Upasana was closer to you than me. She still misses Bhabhiji ke Chhole Bhaturey[13].”   

On the way home in their hatchback car, Mr Duggal could not convince himself whether this was all real or fake.

“When people appear madly in love after marriage, it is also far from real,” Mrs Duggal hinted how a façade is always in place, “Forget everything, it was a good freak-out session. I enjoyed the music, golgappas[14], chaat and ice cream flavours like mint and paan[15], just wonderful. I remember that. Nothing else. Perhaps divorce is not a bad thing after this. The lesser burden on our courts. You have to admit they set an example. End it without scars and bruises, without social stigma. The same people who attended the marriage were present at their divorce, so hopefully, they will not badmouth them. I won’t be surprised if this catches up fancy and becomes a trend here like in the West,” Mrs Duggal gave her candid views while Mr Duggal focused on driving safely to negotiate the final bend near their house.   

“Perhaps you are right,” Mr Duggal agreed as he stopped the car at the entrance. Shamsher came out to open the gate and asked,” So how was your party, guys?”

“Oh, it was lovely, beta. You should have comewith us. I have something for you,” Mrs Duggal gave him the box of laddoos[16] they were gifted before leaving the party ground.  

While Mr Duggal parked the car in the garage, Shamsher opened the designer box and saw the printed photo of Upasana, with a thank-you note.

“Like Shaadi ka laddoo[17], this is divorce ka laddoo, taste it, beta,” Mrs Duggal teased her son who was unwilling to marry even though he was close to forty.  

When they entered the living room, Shamsher went to the upper floor and stood on the balcony. Mrs Duggal sent his father upstairs to check his emotional state. Mr Duggal came and placed his hand on his son’s shoulder.

“Did you like Upasana?”

Shamsher did not turn around to answer the question. In the meanwhile, Mrs Duggal came upstairs slowly with her arthritic knees, and responded on his behalf, “What will this coward say? He could never say it earlier. Always busy with computers.”

Finding him unusually quiet after this salvo for the first time in years, his parents left him alone to regain emotional composure. However, his silence answered a lot.   

 “You knew all this?” Mr Duggal asked her after reaching their bedroom.

“Of course, I am his mother. I can sense that. I know his feelings better than you do,” Mrs Duggal shot back with confidence.

“But you never said it to me. Maybe I could take it up with her,” Mr Duggal said.

“But I was not sure if she was also having the same feelings for him,” Mrs Duggal explained to justify her silence.

Shamsher recollected the three years he and Upasana studied in the same school together. Then she left the locality and was admitted to a girl’s convent. Later she left for the US to pursue higher studies where she fell in love with Puneet Poddar who was studying on the same campus. Some mutual friends kept offering updates though he never established contact with her.

Shamsher picked up one laddoo from the box without hesitation and put it in his mouth. The saffron flavour was awesome, cooked in desi ghee[18]. His smile of satisfaction grew wider as he stuffed another laddoo – to celebrate their divorce and gave a hearty laugh to release his residual feelings of childhood love.    

[1] High spirited

[2] enjoyment

[3] Come

[4] Bride, daughter-in law

[5] Show or event

[6] A loose trouser

[7] Son

[8] Oh!

[9] A preparation of cottage cheese

[10] A kind of Indian bread

[11] Savoury snacks

[12] friend

[13] Sister-in-law’s chickpea curry with fried flatbread

[14] Savoury snack

[15] Betel quid regarded as a digestive after a heavy meal

[16] Sweets

[17] Wedding sweets

[18] Homemade clarified butter

Devraj Singh Kalsi works as a senior copywriter in Kolkata. His short stories and essays have been published in Deccan Herald, Tehelka, Kitaab, Earthen Lamp Journal, Assam Tribune, and The Statesman. Pal Motors is his first novel.  


PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL. 

Categories
The Observant Immigrant

A Bouquet of Retorts

By Candice Louisa Daquin

Courtesy: Creative Commons

Language. Children learn it before they understand its importance. Adults can struggle to learn additional languages because the brain is less elastic as it ages. The formulation of language is a key component of what makes humans, human. Our language (though not our communication) is speculated to be among the most complicated and rule-bound of living creatures. Whether disproved in the future when we are able to translate other animals’ languages, we can all agree, the impact of language on us is invaluable.

Why then are our language skills diminishing? With every person who has benefited from being able to look up information online and thus, know a little bit about a lot of subjects, we have simultaneously reduced our language breadth. We are increasingly tempted to take short cuts linguistically both in writing (texts and emails) and how we speak to each other. It may be tempting to blame this on social media but it’s not that simple. This is not new: Throughout time, there has been enormous value put on ‘banter’, ‘ridicule’, ‘sarcasm’ and pithy retorts.

Perhaps people who can summon lightning fast rapporté are considered witty, nimble minded, fashionable. Contemplate those who have been considered ‘cool’ socially. Those who had the quick response, the short soundbite that cut to the chase or was easily repeatable, was often admired. Just recently Ukrainian President Volodymyr Zelenskyy in response to President Biden’s offer of a flight to get him and his family out of harm’s way, replied: “I don’t need a ride, I need bullets.”

People applauded his response because in many ways it describes the crux of what Volodymyr Zelenskyy and his country are going through and portrays him as a brave leader. Just as Clint Eastwood in the Dirty Harry series said the much-emulated words: “Make my day punk” and Arnold Schwarzenegger coined “hasta la vista” in the Terminator series alongside other iconic statements made by film stars, celebrities, politicians and authors. It’s the admiration of cutting to the chase, emulated by millions, as a means of extracting the essence of what we’re trying to say or merely being glib. We utilise quotes now more than ever, through the social media medium which makes it easy. The only question is; when we scroll through quotes and need ever increasing variety to our lives, are we really absorbing the meaning behind the soundbite or merely parroting it?

There is a history behind the proverb, quote and parable. It was a means of remembering wisdoms easily for those who might have been illiterate or before books were widely available. Along with songs, this was a method of retaining what was not written. Religion has employed this through easy to remember choruses and proverbs, it has long been human nature to reflect on life through such proverbs and sayings. In the 14th century the popular proverb “He who sups with the Devil should have a long spoon” and other sayings were a means of social control or wisdom, depending. In quotes from Aesop, (the famous fables) “We hang the petty thieves and appoint the great ones to public office.” We can admire the truism of this, just as we admire the bravado of a TV hero saying “make my day punk.” Perhaps Confucius said it best: “They must often change who would be constant in happiness or wisdom.” And quotes are a ready means of growth that don’t require the commitment of reading say, The Four Books and Five Classics of Confucianism.

But when do quotes stop being educational and more, inadequate shortcuts to knowledge? Where I live, people don’t read whole books very often anymore. They excuse this by saying they are ‘too busy’ to read. I work a 60-hour week and I read. I can understand emergency room doctor’s and new parents not having time to read, but regular folk? You can tell how much someone reads by asking them what their favourite books are. If they quote more than one high school book, chances are, they haven’t read much since high school. Reading is an evolutionary experience and we grow as we read. Many people have forsaken televisions (which isn’t a bad thing) but also the genre of fiction, believing it has no worth. Are we ‘better’ for reading less fiction, and for reading fewer complete books and more online news channels and texts and memes? Do we lose something? And if so, what do we lose when we absorb language in this different, shortened way?

When was the last time you sat down and had a really in-depth conversation that wasn’t about your parents’ dementia or a breast cancer diagnosis or something that serious? But simply analyzing a book you read, a play you went to see, a film, or a discussion on politics or history or psychology? Granted some of us may never have sought to do this and that’s okay, but of those who did used to analyze, it seems analysis is less mainstream and now very specific to your job field. Fewer people sit on Sunday afternoons and read the paper from front to back. More scroll quickly, gleaning the basic amuse-bouche but nothing of substance. If you are a marketing analysist you analyze market trends. If you work in the financial sector, you may analyse financial impact. If you are an economist, you may consider economic development. Because most of us work such long hours, do we really have time, energy (or desire) to analyse things we don’t have to analyse?

It could be a sign of the times, of modernity, cultural shifts, progress even, that we don’t need to delve as deeply. No longer subject to pouring through piles of textbooks to hand write a paper. And some of that progress facilitates other knowledge, such as an ability to navigate the www… and beyond — to understand HTML and design websites and publish books all by ourselves, things that formerly would have seemed impossible. The scope of things we can do with technology for example, has expanded our choices recreationally and professionally. Kids are creating entire music albums in their bedrooms with affordable equipment, people are making whole films on their iPhone, others earn a living filming themselves for social media platforms, models are made by Instagram photos, we have all become graphic designers and editors of our own stories.

On the flip side of that, jobs that once promised a living wage such as graphic design, photography, editing, translation, music production, are being replaced by cheaper options. Platforms like FIVERR can design your tattoo for you, create a corporate logo, a book cover, anything you should desire, for a fraction of the price a professional would charge, because they are borderless, not beholden to the rules of old, and could well be a 16-year-old practicing graphic design skills from their bedroom. On the face of it, there is nothing wrong with that. If someone in Indonesia wants to offer those services for a fraction of the price a US supplier would charge, and under-cuts them in the process, isn’t that just the consequence of a free marketplace? If that Indonesian supplier wishes to charge what for them is a relatively fair wage, but in the US market would be considered a pauper’s wage, is it exploitative to the Indonesian? Or must we accept an individual’s choice to make that decision for themselves?

Should we question what ‘choice’ means if there is effectively, less choice when someone offers services for less? What is equitable? Ethical? With technology half the times we don’t know what country, what nationality or the details of the people we work with and it becomes less important. The only reason it is important is if someone is working from Nepal for $3 an hour whilst someone is working from Australia for $25 an hour. Simultaneously if everyone is aware of that inequity but agrees-none-the-less, then who are we to complain? Cost of living varies and maybe charging commensurate to your cost of living is a more realistic model than across-the-board flat rates. How much has changed since the internet opened borders and countries to a greater freedom of the choice of commerce and services than ever before? Like with anything, there is exploitation and there is improvement, and there’s no one simple answer to ensuring everything is fair, or nobody is exploited.

How does this relate to language? Or a series of retorts? It comes down to shifting social mores and what our expectations are – with this comes a modification of language, much like that you read about in science fiction novels of the 1960’s where the homogenised aspect of the world watered down uniqueness in favour of uniformity and created a melting pot where language among other things, was diluted for simplicities sake. Interestingly science fiction also created entirely new languages, (conlang, which is an artificial language) and worlds, so one could say it added to as much as it abstracted the future. Using posteriori languages (borrowed words and grammar from existing languages) has become commonplace, from Spanglish to Yiddish in America.

In the article ‘SMS & Its Negative Effects on Language’ (www.itstillworks.com), the authors note the mass use of shortened ‘slang’ language employed by societal groups, not least teenagers. Such habits have been speculated to carry over into reduced grammatical and spelling abilities, although conversely it could be argued, if teens are writing more (even badly) it encourages those who formerly may not have written at all. If you think how much your social skills have deteriorated since the pandemic because of lock-down and less direct socialising, is it that hard to believe persistent use of abbreviations and icons would replace language fluency? In the article ‘Alienating the Audience: How Abbreviations Hamper Scientific Communication’ (http://www.Psychologicalscience.org) the authors point to loss of deeper meaning when employing constant acronyms.

In The Times of India article ‘Shortening language has negative implications’, the authors point to a misuse of technology (always being ‘on’ and responsive to technology) ironically reduces efficiency and that ‘infomania’ can cause an overload of information. Being ‘dumbed down’ by technology and linguistic abbreviation could reduce the sharpness of our knowledge. Conversely, The Atlantic says in its article ‘Teens Aren’t Ruining Language’ that while ‘fad’ words may have a different trajectory online, they don’t have the power to ‘debase’ linguistic standards. “How much a person’s vernacular changes over time may have as much to do with personality and social standing as it has to do with age. The extent to which teenagers are credited with (or blamed for) driving lasting change to language … is grossly overstated.”

Whatever language we speak, we may be aware of this shift in seeking depth. Not only reading less complete works but expecting a synopsis instead. How does this affect conversations? Social interactions? What do we value and consider ‘worth’ as well as what the shift from meaning to soundbite imply? It is good to be able to Google everything and think we understand things we may not have looked up if the internet did not exist. But simultaneously we’re aware what’s online isn’t always factual so much as a series of compiled opinion. If history is written by the victor, then doesn’t it stand to reason what we assume is ‘fact’ shifts dramatically? What people in China right now, are exposed to as ‘incontrovertible truth’ is not the same as what people in Russia are being exposed to, or America, or India. With so much variation in what represents pure truth, shouldn’t we worry about that? Or are we imagining a past where truth existed in a purer state than it ever did?

Journalists used to have to write objectively about subjects, unless they were writing opinion pieces or columns. Even with the latter, there was a responsibility to report news from both sides, and not let personal bias taint the reporting or the information being presented. When you read news articles now, if you step back and try to put your own personal political views aside – what do you think about the reporting of those subjects? Are they objective? Take any side you want, but what you’ll find is they are often blatant or subtle bias and invested in projecting their perspective as the ‘only truth.’ Even the most basic Wikipedia definition of journalistic objectivity states: “To maintain objectivity in journalism, journalists should present the facts whether or not they like or agree with those facts. Objective reporting is meant to portray issues and events in a neutral and unbiased manner, regardless of the writer’s opinion or personal beliefs.” Why then is this not demanded?

I admire journalists who could step outside of their own views and write on a subject without that natural bias. Non-journalists are biased and look to journalism as a fair reporter of facts, where we can make our own minds up. Reporting shouldn’t be an opportunity to tear one side down to promote another. In America, the backlash against Donald Trump was perhaps the greatest witnessed in this country because of the deep divide in voters and the horror felt towards Donald Trump by many. He was considered dangerous for the country and irrespective of whether it was a truth, the majority of news outlets were a 100 percent against him. When I brought this up, I was told I obviously was a racist who supported Donald Trump otherwise why would I even care? This missed the point. I cared not because I wanted to defend Trump, but because I felt objective, rational, non-biased news reporting had been completely eroded.

It’s more important to me that we retain that objectivity even in the face of things that we may personally revile. A journalist who is unable to be objective, forfeits the right to condemn another, because they are not utilising that objectivity in their analysis. Maybe we cannot expect regular every day people to be free of bias, but when the moral underpinning of your job requires it, then you owe it to your readership not to pander to their outrage and stir the pot, but present an objective overview. The same is true of social media ‘conversation’ where a subject is presented, and people sound off, often becoming offensive, outrageous and exceeding the remit expected if we were all sitting in a room together. That anonymity afforded by a screen and physical distance, seems to have opened a pandoras box of horrors.

People can be unrecognisably offensive in their attack of others, for no discernable reason. It should be possible to discuss any subject without people devolving into personal attack and ad hominin. Has our use of language also been altered via our anonymity online? The oft disputed Sapir–Whorf Hypothesis states that the language we speak, influences the way one thinks. This verges on potential fascism if it judges one language superior to another, but the point is taken. The complexity of language has been linked to higher IQ’s which may explain why Finnish and Japanese students tend to be in the top ten achieving academically, their languages being among the most complex. Likewise, people who are polyglots, and speak multiple languages, or those who are musical (often considered a language) or mathematical (likewise) tend to possess higher IQ’s. The problem with this is we will never know what other influencing factors play a part in this, including nurture and nature.

This paradox between cancel culture, that looks to demote those who say things deemed offensive, and the increasing offensive backlash and gaslighting of others, seems to point at the hypocrisy of ‘free speech.’ It’s only free if the right person is saying the right thing, otherwise you’re liable to be canceled, but watch out, because that’s subject to social fashions that vary wildly. Beyond that hypocrisy, what of the actual quality of communication? Have we devolved to the point of only being able to say what we really think anonymously? Why do people write reams online but say little in a real-life group? Are we hiding behind rules and etiquette that only creates sub-groups that have no tolerance for other groups? Does group think ever produce something other than subjective thinking?

If aliens came to Earth, they might notice humans seem to admire ridicule and socially sanctioned sarcasm and call it witty without needing to have a deeper conversation. Twitter represents this phenomenon most acutely because the actual length of your post is restricted and thus, you have to encapsulate what you want to convey, by honing it to that word-count. That’s great if you’re delivering a highly edited statement, but how naturalistic is it as a form of legitimate communication? Does it replace your grandmother sitting at the kitchen table with you for an hour? Maybe it doesn’t have to, but do we still sit at the kitchen table and have those conversations? And if we don’t, will that affect what human communication is evolving (or devolving) into?

Sometimes flim-flam is appealing, in its starry simplicity. We embrace Digi-Fiction written and read from computers, changing how we process fiction. We can be attracted to the code-switch of language that takes the guess work out of communication. For those neurodiverse populations and people increasingly using actual code as a form of language such as HTML, it may seem like a logical next step. An improvement on the guesswork of complex modes of communication that were challenging for so many. At the same time, when we lose the ability to read a book from beginning to end, we lose the patience and journey of that process, which if not replaced, may be a genuine loss we cannot even fathom. Then again, in the spirit of all possibilities it could be we leave behind that which is not necessary and embrace a Haiku perspective of saying more in less.

I confess, when I read a ‘classic’ novel I am aware of how much superfluous information exists and doesn’t strictly need to. It is interesting to consider how much language we used to say one thing, compared to now. The medium of social media means we’re busier than ever and take our ‘fix’ of what attracts us (quickly) before signing off. Therefore, long poems have less attraction than shorter memes. We fixate on the easily presented, the humorous and immediate. Nuance, subtlety, slow burns, those are almost luxuries we may leave for rare nights in the bath. Novels are changing to adjust to this phenomenon. Graphic novels are gaining further traction, even songs. Our entire social fabric has altered, and, in some ways, this was inevitable if you recall we always admired that witty fast retort, going back to Marie Antoinette, Gloria Swanson and beyond.

Does this mean all language must conform to this new rigor? Or will epochs of devotees to other forms of communication, endure? When I browse through bookstores, I notice there are many styles of writing, including the long-winded, and the easy read. My fear is not that we read ‘easier’ books but that we stop reading altogether, believing scrolling on our phone compensates for the discipline of reading a book. One may argue, do we need discipline? But learning is invariably discipline and part of honing rigorous learning habits is being challenged. We can do crosswords, play chess, sudoku, and go to the gym to maintain a healthy body and mind, but the ‘imaginarium’ of fiction and the need for creative expression is for many of us, equally necessary.

Fiction isn’t a waste of time simply because it’s not a literalism. Fiction as a speculative field, has inspired science, politics, social advancement and a sense of possibility. Fiction can thrill, entice, or simply entertain. Not all forms of entertainment are equal. Whilst I confess, I do watch television, I recognise the lasting value of a book compared to a serial, because it requires more of us mentally. For those highly disciplined souls, there may be no need to ‘indulge’ in fiction, or television. Maybe reading Scientific American or pouring over The Financial Times or Anglers Digest will be their choice. But language has a trickle-down effect, and you can guarantee, it will eventually permeate all sectors of our lives.

Do we want to completely dilute the value of further explanation, detail and depth in favour of the glamorous soundbite? Or is it possible to harness the value of succinct communication and retain the continued relevance of detail? When I read what passes for scientific news in popular media, it concerns me that we are picking and choosing for ‘click bait’ purposes and this leads to the proliferation of inaccuracy. Case in point, the startling headline: ‘The Epstein Barr Virus (EBV) causes MS’! Then in the meat of the article, we find 95 percent of humans have ‘EBV whilst only (35.9 [95% CI: 35.87, 35.95] per 100,000 people) have MS’ – we are leaving out the most important connections in favour of scaremongering journalism which only serves to increase (inaccurate) neuroticism when it should seek to educate and elucidate.

It’s not that too much information is bad for us, it’s that too much incomplete information can distract us from truth, and we may learn to gloss over what matters in favour of what shines brightest. Sometimes it is necessary to finish the chapter.

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Candice Louisa Daquin is a Psychotherapist and Editor, having worked in Europe, Canada and the USA. Daquins own work is also published widely, she has written five books of poetry, the last published by Finishing Line Press called Pinch the Lock. Her website is www thefeatheredsleep.com

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