There was a time when it was not too difficult to gain admission to one of the five IITs in the country. One needed only a modicum of intelligence to be selected, with no need for extra classes, or coaching, and certainly no swotting in any Kota factory.
There were some who, after being invited to enter the hallowed precincts of an IIT, contemptuously declined. I was one of them. With supreme stupidity, I had declared that there was no future in technology. Alas! I had no premonition of how much technology there was to be in my future!
Instead of maligning women, Shakespeare should have declared, ‘Hell hath no fury like technology scorned!’ I have discovered the hard way how vengeful technology can be. It has been striking back in a variety of ways over the years, even though, quite naively, I had hoped that its wrath would mellow with age. But no, it has continued to exact revenge.
My wife and I live in a multi-storey building where technology keeps tormenting us. We are held hostage by the myriad apps that are an intrinsic part of condominium living. Would you believe, we frequently get locked out of our apartment because that villainous electronic lock pretends to malfunction?
That wicked smoke detector scares us by going off without any provocation, sometimes in the middle of the night. The electricity gets disconnected on its own. Our maid is randomly refused entry into the complex. And, once we were trapped by the malicious lift! For all of ten diabolical minutes!
When, earlier this month, my wife went to our daughter’s place for a couple of weeks, technology saw it as an opportunity to drive a wedge between us. I had not been aware, but technology keeps me under surveillance! I discovered this only because some sneaky apps kept sending alerts to my wife’s phone each time I left our housing complex. And she telephoned each time, “Where are you going? It is well past dinner time! Surely not to that no-good Gopu’s place?”
The nefarious plot to make us quarrel included communicating the names of all the visitors to my wife’s phone. The presswala, the newspaperman and the courier were meticulously listed. Every pizza, every kebab, each and every calorie was counted and reported to the missus.
Now you must understand that my wife and I are no longer at the coochie coochie honeymoon phase of our marriage. In fact, we are at that stage when most questions are prefaced with, ‘Where the hell?’ or ‘What the hell?’ Even then, I was surprised when my wife cut short her visit and returned home early this morning.
“Who the hell is Heerabai?” she fumed.
I got jolted to total wakefulness from my sleepy state. Heerabai? I had no idea. No idea whatsoever.
“She visited you last night at ten!”
“Oh, that was Heera Bhai, the Blinkit delivery guy. I had ordered bread and eggs,” I said and showed her my phone payment app. “See! I paid Rs150.”
My wife gave me a withering look. “This… this Heerabai charges Rs150! How low can you sink?”
The implied accusation was so preposterous that it deserved a really absurd response. “See?” I said. “I never splurge money. Always scrimping and saving! That’s me!”
My wife did not find my attempt at humour at all amusing. So I repeated, “Darling, Heera Bhai is a man.”
But she didn’t believe me.
This incident has shattered me. I surrender. I give up! I just can’t afford to upset the missus! Can someone please help me tender an unconditional apology to technology for holding it in contempt 60 years ago?
K.C. Verma is a former chief of R&AW. kcverma345@gmail.com