Spice of life: From remote control to emotional disconnect
After a bit of tinkering, the screen lit up again — dim, flickering, but alive. “See, it works!” I said with quiet triumph. My son rolled his eyes and said: “So does your typewriter, but we don’t send emails on it.”
We often think emotional ties belong only to people — family, friends, even pets. But sometimes, quietly and unexpectedly, a bond forms with the things that simply stay — familiar, constant, and always present.
Like a grandmother’s hand-knitted sweater, a dented bronze (kanse da) glass once brimming with sweet lassi on sweltering summer afternoons, an antique key-wound wall clock faithfully marking the hours, a gramophone humming golden melodies, or a rotary phone crackling with faraway voices — each one a gentle echo of a time, a rhythm, a culture we belonged to. These aren’t just objects, they’re time capsules. And sometimes, they become companions.
In my case, it was a 46-inch television. It never spoke yet it knew my silences. It didn’t feel, but it carried the weight of a thousand emotions — match-day cheers, heated news debates, Sunday movie nostalgia, and the live morning and evening Gurbani Kirtan from Sri Harmandir Sahib that enveloped our home in a deep, divine serenity. So, when its screen suddenly went blank, something inside me flickered too. My son, who had been softly campaigning for a sleeker upgrade for months, finally saw his window. “Dad, it’s time,” he said, gently suggesting what he knew I was resisting.
But I wasn’t ready. I don’t let go of old companions that easily — especially one I had brought home with my hard-earned savings and grown inseparable from. Over the years, the screen had become more than a device. It had woven itself into the fabric of my life. I took it to a kind-hearted repairman who handled it with a mechanic’s tools but a listener’s patience. After a bit of tinkering, the screen lit up again — dim, flickering, but alive. “See, it works!” I said with quiet triumph. My son rolled his eyes and said: “So does your typewriter, but we don’t send emails on it.” It was more than sarcasm; it was the familiar gap between generations.
But the truce didn’t last long. A few weeks later, the screen went dark again — this time with a finality that felt different. I rushed it to another service centre — cleaner, fancier, full of jargon. They kept it overnight. The next morning, the technician called, voice flat and formal: “Sir, it’s not repairable. Please collect it.” I stood still for a moment, as if he hadn’t just talked about a machine, but closed a chapter of my life. It felt like a quiet goodbye. I brought it home — lifeless, yet heavy with memory. The wall where it once stood looked unfamiliar, bare.
My son — part amused, part empathetic — encouraged gently, “Let’s get a new one, Dad. You deserve it.” Thus began the hunt. OLEDs, QLEDs, mini-LEDs. Android TV, Google TV. Resolutions, refresh rates — I felt like I needed a manual just to decode the brochures. And my modest budget? Clearly stuck in a decade long gone. I wandered from showroom to showroom like a man swiping through profiles on a dating app — dazzled by choices, unsure what truly matched.
I lingered. Because when you’ve lived with something that long, it doesn’t just plug into a socket — it plugs into your memories. Even as I embrace the sleek glow of the new TV, the warmth, the quirks, and the quiet companionship of the old set will stay etched in the memory, reminding me that sometimes even machines carry pieces of our soul. As William Shakespeare once wrote, “Parting is such sweet sorrow.” This one, surprisingly, left more than a blank screen — it left an emotional disconnect. opinder.lamba@gmail.com
The writer is a Mohali-based freelance contributor.
