Here is a poem for the year twenty-eighteen:

Dear 2018,
I refuse to be part of the shenanigans of your time.
A virtually driven time;
A ping is a conversation starter,
And emojis are a form of expression.
Cameras are out even before you can absorb a space,
And updates on Facebook constantly keeping up to pace.
In the name of maintaining a relationship,
Comment, heart, and tag on every bf’s pic is a must,
And memes from friends a daily rut.
Family WhatsApp groups are the new dinner table conversations,
And good morning forwards a way of keeping in touch.
Phone screens and earphones just another way to avoid people,
And Ola, Uber drivers’ just chauffeurs and not a pal so much.
Attention spans lasting as the one pump chump,
Itchy fingertips and the globe of Trump.
Stories and versions each to their own,
Rarely viewed as a complete picture.
From Knowing 10 digits by heart,
To 300 plus contacts piled on the phone.
From Identifying nooks and corners of a street,
To Getting accustomed to the ‘Turn Left’ voice on the phone.
Stamps merely treasure to a philatelist, and
Laggori, Chupa Chupi, hopscotch, just intriguing words.
When Malls were a luxury and not a culture,
And Friendship meant sharing lunch boxes and not Netflix screens.
From the time of paper and pen;
A time where conversations took place in the form of words:
Both Written and Spoken.
A time where photographs could be felt,
Cherishing each moment,
Lest should they be forgotten.
From the time of efforts and greetings,
Where appreciation was a gesture,
From the heart, and
for winning hearts.
A time where home was a feeling of being together,
and by each other,
Never could be,
Yours Truly, A time not so long ago.

A poem by Shruti Parthasarathy.
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