News Before Notifications

The newspaper that millions like me reached out to as soon as the familiar thud of its landing with BrahMos-like precision on the verandah announced its arrival each morning has been one of the unintended victims of the internet. For much of my life, newspapers had been my constant companions. Beginning with the Amrita Bazar Patrika in my school days, my romance with them continued with The Telegraph during college years and settled into a cosy midlife relationship with The Times of India as one grew older.

I would always read the newspaper starting with the last page, moving on to the comics and astrology sections before giving a cursory glance at the front-page headlines. The editorial page was largely ignored because, as with my own constitution at times, I found the middle part a bit too heavy to handle except for those occasional light-weight middles, write-ups that were too short to be labelled as articles and too long to be considered as mere snippets.

In the years before retirement, I continued to read the newspapers delivered to my house despite their easier and mostly free availability on the internet, largely because the office paid for them, and I was also initially technically challenged enough to struggle with browsing seamlessly.

Apart from the sports page and comics, I always scanned the astrology section and the obituaries. Thus, my day would begin with either foreboding or optimism, depending on what some stranger had predicted! I would also read each and every obituary, wondering what kind of life the departed had lived. Some had passed away at ripe old ages and were remembered by a long list of those left behind — sons, daughters, sons-in-law, daughters-in-law, grandchildren, great-grandchildren and other assorted relatives. Then there were the more poignant ones of young lives lost too soon. A son, a daughter taken away suddenly, leaving behind grieving parents; a loving spouse whose promised lifelong journey together lay broken by fate. Others had crossed over to the other side decades ago but were still remembered each year by an increasingly dwindling list of mourners- a reminder that time dulls neither pain nor heartache as long as one chooses to remember.

Then there were obituaries of the men and women in uniform. They were not victims of accidents or diseases but had chosen to walk a path which Robert Frost had long ago called the road less taken. A youthful Lt., a Captain just married, a pilot flying into the skies never to return- all remembered by not just their families but their regiments, battalions, formations, colleagues and hopefully, a grateful nation year after year.

Some years back, I stopped reading newspapers much as I had stopped a few other pastimes like watching movies in theatres and listening to the radio. My phone gave news from around the world, and one no longer had to wait for a particular time to listen to one’s favourite songs. I had always been selective about movies, and now I could choose to see what I wanted without even visiting the theatre. Instead of me reaching out to it, the world itself had moved into my house, my drawing room, my bedroom and finally into the palm of my hand.

The newspaper subscriptions were cancelled and replaced by apps, which served everything absolutely hot and piping. Revenge was no longer a dish best served cold- one could deliver instant karma to the enemy with social media clips and WhatsApp!

Ironically, I revelled in this click-a-minute life even as retirement caught up with me. My body may have slowed, I told myself, but my fingers and my mind could still keep up with the world. Soon, just about the only activity I did not perform with an app was driving and playing golf. For all other purposes, I had become a bot talking to other bots on banking websites, travel platforms and customer care chats!

But one of life’s most enduring truths is that, like Mother Earth, all living beings slowly but surely rotate back to what they have left behind. In the past, a sure-fire stress buster for me had always been taking down a Wodehouse book from my library and reading through a few pages of any random story. A short visit to the Drones Club, a brief exchange with Bertie Wooster, and I would soon be ready to face the real world again.

However, Wooster on YouTube felt like an imposter, much like many of his friends trying to slip into the homes of their romantic interests. I was beginning to miss the magic of the printed word. Reading Wodehouse on Kindle was like drinking tepid tea. It failed to invigorate. The customer care Bots took on sinister and alienlike shapes, stressing me out further. News reels had anchors almost jumping out from my phone and throttling me to death at the slightest perceived or otherwise. Deleting and shutting them off was not quite as final as shredding them and dumping them in the nearest waste bin would have been. Somewhere in the deep and dark bowels of the memory caches and the Cloud universe, they would no doubt still be lurking around like Godzilla’s eggs.

Thus began my journey back to my old self. I do not watch TV news anymore on my phone or anywhere else, for that matter. I have subscribed to a real newspaper, which is delivered in the old-fashioned way to my residence, and I read it backwards like before. I am healed by the soothing touch of the written word and the mutual respect between it and the reader, whereby I can gently lay aside the other for a few moments to ponder and then return to it without recriminations or guilt. The rustling of pages as one spreads out and scans the morning newspaper, starting with the sports page and the reassurance that the byline will not jump out and bite me or at the very least puncture my eardrums, is balm on a wounded soul which had strayed afar and the perfect paper weight to keep my sanity grounded.

Views expressed are personal. The writer is a retired IAS officer who served as Secretary to Govt of India