“You are not on social media.” I asked though I knew he is not.
“Oh no. I have always had better ways to kill my time.” The old man of the attic said to me in his trademark satirical tone.
I smirked. He suddenly looked deep into my eyes.
“Tell me Papermate, doesn’t this generation considers itself to be a rebel? Kinda people who are not much bothered about the opinions people have about them. They live free, don’t want to be asked What, Where, When and With whom they are. Don’t they consider it a sin and invasion in their private, and of course so noble lives?” .
“You can say sort of. They don’t like much of nagging.” I mumbled.
“And is it true that they consider all the generations before them as hypocrite idiots who lived as dumbs and died dumb?? “
“ Common , Thomas, of course not. There is always a respect and you know it.”
“Respect my foot!!! Don’t bamboozle me with your romanticism. Just tell me its true or not?”
“Well if you can bear the truth, its true. You all were hypocrites. Seldom did what preached. We are much ahead in thoughts, dreams and aspirations. And yes the most important thing..we are not concerned what people think of us.” I put it as bluntly as I could this time.
“Very nice. Very fine. But tell me then, why does this same generation behave like buffoons on social media? Why do they want me to know where they are going, what they are doing….when and with heck whom they are doing? If they are so not bothered about people’s opinion, why do they post their photographs and yearn for the so called Likes and Comments? Why do they want an approval from people about their achievements, dreams, thoughts, dreams and…what was that you said?? Aspirations. Yes…aspirations!!! Why? Why such hypocrisy? It is not a rebel’s demand to be liked. Is it? Isn’t this a hypocrisy…doing against what you preach? And then how different do you guys become from us…the oldies…the hypocrites?” He minced each and every word in the most pleasant of tones. Once he ended, he called for some more coffee.
I bid him bye and came back to my flat. I thought and wondered if I must write this encounter and share with the world. Will people like? What if they get offended?
But then I said to myself that I am, by all of my abilities or disabilities, a writer. I must write what I feel like, not wondering how people would respond to it. Probably, then I could go for a coffee again to the old man of the attic with much more confidence.
Will you come along?
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