Ours must be the only household in our colony, or possibly in Delhi, which doesn't have a computer. It cannot therefore boast of an e-mail address nor, for that matter, a mobile phone. Since our landline phone works only intermittently, it is as good as useless, and so is our power supply. And most of the time, our taps are dry.
How do I manage then? Since I have no computer, I type all my articles-and books-on my clunky typewriter, which is nearly as old as me, but works wonderfully. I type with two fingers, so it takes time, but at my age, everything takes time, which is ok by me. Incidentally, I do an article a day, and I have been doing so for the last fifty years, and my typewriter knows it.
Since I cannot send or receive e-mail, I use my courier friend who lives next door. I type out my message and call my friend-if the phone is working-and hand it over to him. His service has never failed.
It is true I cannot receive e-mail messages but I have known my friends for over fifty years and I know what they think of George W Bush or Sonia Gandhi. They can always write-and they do-if they are so keen.
Incidentally, I did get a computer once. It was a gift from my IT son who lives in Silicon Valley. My cat didn't like it and was always scratching it. Just when I was getting used to it, I found I had to think very fast to keep pace with it. I am not so young anymore and have always been a slow thinker. The computer was always running ahead of me, even completing my sentences. This was too much for a man whose whole career depended on completing his sentences and I sold the damn thing to my kabadiwala.
My sharebroker used to chat with me-or rather my computer- online. As soon as the markets opened, I used to be deluged with tips, and an avalanche of figures, none of which I understood. Infosys up, Hindustan Lever down, and Ranbaxy mulling a bonus issue. This was most upsetting. I am glued to my paper in the morning, and take my time over such juicy tidbits as L. K. Advani's forays in Pakistan and how pally he is getting with Jinnah's secular friends over there. Between Infosys and Advani, the choice was clear.
My friends, all of whom are armed with third or is it fourth-generation computers, tell me that I do not know what I am missing. Some of them can get their grandchildren's photos on their e-mail, and can actually hear them speak. This is not such a big deal. My grandsons live in Silicon Valley and I know what they look like. One of them looks exactly like his cat, and since all cats look alike, why do I need an e-mail to see what he looks like?
Have I missed a great deal by not going in for the so-called mod-con? Perhaps I have, but I have my doubts. There is the story of Winston Churchill, who was repairing his garden wall, smoking a big cigar like a volcano. A passer by asked him how many cigars he smoked.
"Twenty a day," said Churchill.
"That is nearly half a million so far," said the astonished man. "Do you know you could have owned Army & Navy Mansions if you had saved all that cash?"
"Do you own Army & Navy Mansions?" asked Churchill, still puffing away.
"No," said the man.
"I do," said Churchill, taking out another big cigar from the box.
This article was originally published on October 05, 2005.
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