Beyond the glow of a digital world

WAITING for my pizza in the mall, I let my gaze wander, as it always does, despite my children’s warnings. It is in such places, amid the soft clatter of cutlery and the indifferent glow of neon lights, that my instincts sharpen, catching the smallest of human details.

At the next table, a middle-aged man sat in front of a laptop, his fork moving to his mouth more out of habit than hunger. At another table, a young couple —apparently married — sits side by side in silence. Each wears earpods, their attention fixed on a single phone propped before them, the glow of its screen replacing conversation.

A few feet away, three colleagues share a table but not a moment; two men and a woman, bound by work, yet each lost in a separate digital orbit. Their heads dip low, faces illuminated by their respective screens, thumbs flickering like nervous tics. Around them, the murmur of the mall swells, but human voices remain curiously absent.

Finally, my gaze settles on a cluster of young men — schoolmates or college friends, perhaps — radiating a carefree joy rare in such spaces. Their laughter rings out, unburdened, as if the world beyond their table holds no claim on them. Not one hand strays toward a glowing screen; no notifications compete for their attention. Conversation flows between them like a swift, unbroken stream, spilling over with ease and energy. Watching them, I feel a quiet solace — and a flicker of faith in humanity restored.

As twilight spreads across the streets, I step out for a stroll, hoping to free myself from the clutches of gadgets. A curious spectacle unfolds: two-wheeler riders glide past, their smartphones mounted proudly at the centre of their handlebars, cradled in silicon grips like prized trophies. Screens flicker with movies and games, while the riders split their gaze — one eye tracing the road ahead, the other devoured by the glow of a digital world, as reality and distraction race side by side.

I slip into a narrow side lane, grateful to escape the blinding headlights and relentless blare of horns. Tucked within the quiet is an old shop, its shelves lined with hand-painted clay idols of Hindu deities. There are no customers. I cannot say if they ever come or if the idols simply gather dust in patient silence. In the shop’s patio, two elderly people sit side by side, unhurried, as though time itself has slowed to match their quiet companionship.

The man sits on a chair, the woman on the shop’s low platform, both with spectacles perched on their noses. The dextrous movements of the paintbrushes in their steady hands are unhurried yet precise, layering the idols with strokes of vibrant hues. The bustling world beyond the lane fades, leaving only their shared rhythm and the soft scent of paint.