A Soul That Dreams in Monochrome

Sometimes I feel like I’ve landed in the wrong century. The endless pings, the constant buzz of messages, the race for likes, and the flood of social media updates make me wonder if I truly fit in here.

Everyone seems to thrive on speed: lightning-fast internet, instant replies, fast food. But I crave real moments, when everything around me slows down and life isn’t trapped in pings and likes.

I secretly yearn for handwritten letters that stretch beyond a text bubble with no real words, only emojis. At this rate, I fear people will soon forget how to write full sentences, maybe even the alphabet itself.

I treasure moments where silence speaks louder than noise. Where I can still savor the comfort of home-cooked meals from my grandma’s traditional recipes.

It’s not that I reject today’s world. I enjoy my gadgets and follow news about AI. Sometimes it feels like AI understands me better than my own family!

I’m enjoying the joy of blogging, pouring my thoughts into posts, and sharing them instantly with the digital world out there. Of course, only a handful actually read and respond, and even then, mostly because they know me personally. Yet, I feel relieved, as if my thoughts have finally escaped their cage, clearing my mind.

Had I lived in the past, I imagine I would have been sending stacks of my so-called creativity bundles as snail mail to publishers, dreaming big… only to be overwhelmed by a flood of rejection letters.

WhatsApp has been another real lifesaver. Because of it, I can connect with my kids the very moment I want to. Even though both of them live far away, video calls let us forget the miles between us, and we never truly feel apart.

So when I say I feel part of another time, I mean I carry a little, or perhaps a lot, of old-world calm into today. I find solace in black and white while everything around me demands to be loud, neon, and 4K Ultra HD and beyond.

Black-and-white photographs fascinate me. Everyone looks so stiff in them, as if smiling too much might get them into trouble. Yet those half-smiles carry a quite charm and innocence.

Sometimes I edit my profile pics to black and white, just to feel a bit more rooted and less scattered. I feel black and white hides wrinkles much better than color, let me be honest! Somehow, it also has that vintage feel.

I’ve always been a lover of antiques. Old furniture, books, vessels, and traditional silk sarees give me a sense of connection. Age-old rituals still hold meaning for me and are treasures I cherish.

Old songs that crackle on the radio carry a nostalgic charm that easily carries me away. My mornings have always unfolded to the soulful voice of M.S. Subbulakshmi, with ‘Nagumomu Ganaleni’ resonating as my all-time favorite.

I even found a strange comfort in those so-called ‘false beliefs’ that people now laugh at. My grandmother passed them down to me, or perhaps I simply picked them up from her. Logic may not always support them, but they carry stories, and I just love them. Honestly, what is life without stories?

Stories have carried me to places I could never visit in person. Aithihyamala is my all-time favourite, and S.K. Pottekkatt’s Oru Desathinte Katha whisks me away to places unfamiliar to me, as someone born and raised in the heart of a city.

My dream home has always been a small house by the paddy fields, where the breeze carries the faint, comforting sounds of temple panchavadyam from nearby.

I still remember telling a friend in my teens that I wanted to ride a bullock cart someday. She laughed and promised to arrange it, since her village still had one.

Naturally, life had its own plans. She’s now a famous gynecologist, and I’m still waiting for that bullock cart ride. After my recent knee surgery, I might need to master taking a single step on the stairs before attempting a bullock cart!

Some years ago, when my kids were little, we often observed Earth Hour, turning off the lights to conserve energy. It wasn’t just about teaching the kids. It was my chance to enjoy the old-world charm of dining by clay oil lamps. Usually, though, I had to settle for candles.

While everyone else was mesmerized by so-called romantic candlelight dinners, I was busy sneaking a peek at how the lucky souls of the past savoured their meals!

Since childhood, I’ve loved the veena and its melody. Almost without warning, in the midst of the chaos of my IT days, I felt an irresistible pull to take it up. Juggling it with other responsibilities was tough, but it felt like a whisper from another time, and I attended classes whenever I could.

As far as I know, no one in my family has ever played the veena, which makes it feel all the more unexplained.

I often find myself thinking about what life was like for women a hundred years ago. I am curious about how they laughed, dreamed, loved, grieved, and somehow, simply carried on.

Did they ever write letters by the glow of an oil lamp?

Did they ever wish for a little ‘me time’, even in a house full of people?

Did they savor secret moments with friends over warm, spiced tea?

Did they, too, feel the emptiness when their children grew up and left home, and manage to keep it hidden behind their smiles?

Did they ever dream of a world of Wi-Fi and online shopping?

Sometimes I regret not asking my grandmother more about her life. The dreams she carried silently. The stories she never told. The bucket list she may have kept just for herself.

Maybe then I would have had at least a blurred picture of the world I seem to long for so much.

Of course, I don’t romanticize everything. History reminds me of the cruel caste rules, the restrictions on women, and the silenced voices. I wouldn’t want that part back.

Life might have been hard back then, yes, but it might also have held a certain stillness, not this restless pace. Maybe I’m wrong. Still, I am quietly holding a soft spot for their courtyard gossip and the warm glow of oil lamps.

I haven’t come across anyone who thinks this way. Perhaps I just haven’t asked. Many might feel as I do, silently yearning for it. Yet in this fast-paced life, they have come to realize there is no real escape. So they accept, adjust, and carry on.

I am fully aware that I belong to the last generation, dreaming in the quiet grace of the old world. As I wander aimlessly through its serene stillness, I can sense the noisy wave of AI sweeping persistently and relentlessly all around me.

So yes, maybe I was born too late. Or maybe just in time. To pause. To listen. To feel the hum of life in the quiet corners of this restless world. Only to be here and now, completely alive!

I’ll leave it here for now. Let me light a small clay lamp. While its gentle glow fills the room, I can vividly imagine what my life might have been like aeons ago.

P.S. I always dream of sitting on the stairs outside the old tiled house, gazing at endless paddy fields. The air smells of wet earth and fresh rain. Temple bells and soft slokas wrap the moment in a gentle, soothing rhythm. The sun spills its dusky orange hues across the sky. I feel as if time has paused, just for me.

Is this too poetic, or just the right amount of daydreaming? What do you think? 🙂