I was in the cab yesterday, returning home from Delhi, when I suddenly had the urge to ask my cab driver how long it would take to get to Farrukhnagar. Farrukhnagar is a small town nearby that flourished under Mughal rule due to its salt trade. I’ve been reading up about the place and want to schedule a day trip to see the remnants of the Mughal era, mainly old forts and baolis (stepwells) -- that are still there.
In the old days, a question like this would have unleashed a flurry of comments from the old man. He’d probably say some relative of his lived in Farrukhnagar and the place was no longer like it used to be. As child he’d would go there to play with his cousins and they’d climb trees in the big field next to the Gol Baoli. He would smile, his eyes would light up and the ramshackle cab - that had looked as though it would fall apart any second - would suddenly pick up speed. A simple question would have turned into a lively exchange of memories. We’d talk about how monuments need to be better looked after. And then, I’d reminisce about my childhood and the antics I’d get up to with my cousins. You need to call them and find out how they are, I’d remind myself.
But I don’t say anything to the driver.
I mean, it’s probably a daft question anyway. I can always look up the internet and see how long it will take me to get there from Gurgaon. And while I’m at it, I can also find out about hotels and restaurants where I can have a quick bite and use the washroom. Technology has made it so convenient. No need to ask anyone anything. All the information is at your fingertips.
But then, a tiny voice whispers in my ear. Convenient, yes. But at what cost? All of this convenience is robbing us of human connections, isn’t it?. What about all the stories you won’t get to hear? Technology is not going to bring you that, is it?
I take a deep breath and lean forward, “How long would it take me to get to Farrukhnagar?” I hear myself saying.
