It deposed Facebook! Who will harvest my tomatoes on Farmville now? Who? Who? And yet you persist in patronising a Silicon Valley-based venture that hyper-connects people. Oh wait…
There’s peer pressure across generations to join it. If you haven’t created an account, your street cred is lower than Charlie Sheen’s at an AA meeting. As the Amish will ignore an Amanda Bynes in their midst, so your social circle will ignore you.
The long phone call is obsolete. I haven’t had me one of those since they considered Kamaal R Khan for a Dadasaheb Phalke. Because in these degenerate days, two friends who last heard each other croak when Manmohan Singh last spoke, will catch up by pumping their thumbs unto phalangeal destruction. Oh well, at least hearing loss won’t be a problem.
We’re continually hyper-informed. Don’t send me a picture of the grotesque boots you just bought; I’ll see you wearing them tomorrow. You needn’t message me what Tina told Bozo told Wonky told you; stewing in his suburban Moscow dacha, Edward Snowden knows about it anyway.
News isn’t new anymore. A hasty Whatsapp notification will update me instead. No more can I wake up to a newspaper headline saying, ‘Royal Baby Burped! Imperial Nanny To Be Appointed Dame!’ Relaying personal news is a drudgery too. Recently, I posted a bit of happy tidings on a Whatsapp group and received congratulatory replies. Meh. Then, on a whim, I called up a friend to convey the latest; his reaction evoked an emotion I struggled to identify for five minutes. Excitement.
Life presents lulls. And oft when on my couch I lie in vacant or in pensive mood, I could insert my left little finger up my left nostril, and dig. Then my right little finger up my right nostril and…you get my drift. Instead, I settle for the dubious pleasure of staring at my phone till I hallucinate that it pinged. It didn’t. Wait, did it? Lemme check.
Articulating one’s thoughts in words is a dying art and like a dying fart (Ready? Try. Wait. Sigh.). This is the Age of Emoticons. Among others, a pig snout, a brinjal, and what looks like a Buckingham Palace guard’s head are expected to stir up the deeps of my soul.
Stalking has gotten easy, and legal. Just dig up the number of your desired (and desirable) prey, open a chat window, download their profile photo and ooh-gle till the blood rushes to your cheeks (and elsewhere). Also, if my ‘last seen’ time that you checked at 11.40, 11.43 and 11.45 p.m. is 10.30, I’m fast asleep, you idiot!
Everyone has permanently flexed necks and double chins. Poonam Pandey could be gyrating up and down a convenient streetlight. Subhash Chandra Bose could pop over from Taiwan and say hello. But you’d be looking at your phone, engrossed in debating whether your parents will let you watch BA Pass (*Blush Blush*).
Here ends my account of WhatsDown with WhatsApp. WhatsLeft is WhatsRight with it.
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