It was a rainy day on a relatively cold winter. The pendulum clock struck 9. A packed lunch box and a school bag laid in front, as I looked through a window of my house, that had two doors and six windows. My neighbour who was usually early to school was back home. Yes, it turned out a holiday as she communicated across the window.
Two decades later, the house now has six doors and five windows. I looked out of the window. A few metres away is a neighbour’s window with a curtain, spelling fancy in English shades of grey. Other windows in the house are facing walls, considering privacy.
On a stormy day with no electricity, it turned out to be a day sans telecommunication. No pop up notifications flashed on mobile nor breaking news on the television. Searching vehemently for the missing wrist watch, it dawned upon that there was not a wall-clock in the house.
With no idea of the passing time, I cuddled snugly onto bed and waited to wake up to a restored electricity supply, still not bothering enough on seeing another human soul.
Technology has brought the world closer, with a potential to make the farthest seem nearer. What fate does it then bring up on the objects that are nearer?
The much merrier meeting up of families and friends squirm under the advent of mail alerts and sale notifications. Befriending a stranger seems distant with the constant sighting of mobile phones that neither received a call nor a message.
When those questions on route navigations, recipes, sports, gardening et al crop up, the virtual world comes to rescue, providing all the information on a platter. All the same, it silently discards the real time discussions and very human experiences of learning, living and loving.
So, when was the last time you looked out of a window, concentrating only on the big, beautiful world outside?