“Better to get items online.” A neighbour says,
while I await my turn in a buzzing grocery store.
Online, missing the noise, we-are-in-this-together gaze,
smiles, daily pleasantries—trivial yet uplifting to the core.
I try fishing out the one-or two-rupee coins,
they intentionally go into hiding, laughing at my own jest—
indistinguishable coins of 10 and 20 rupees—when someone joins;
the queue behind impatient—momentarily put to rest.
At the garments store, the exuberant retailer welcomes,
presents innumerable clothes for me to choose.
Flooded in with the variety, my selection benumbs.
“Why not order online? Such good products, one can’t refuse.”
Storeman’s admiring looks, useful advice, helping me with my pick.
I put the raiment on myself, stare at the mirror.
“Looking great! Suits you well.” Response—enthused and quick.
Electronic buying, a sole choice without any worded glimmer.
I visit an electronics store, planning to replace my old TV set.
“Could have purchased online. People hardly visit us.”
Trading platform, lacking the appetites of colourful display that whet,
as if in an amphitheater surrounding a lively audience, a conscious brush.
The store manager recites the understandable
specifications of televisions, unlike online.
Dazed by the picture quality of all, confused, I stumble,
till a brand is suggested that suits budget and requirement of mine.
At the movie theatre, I experience a euphoric crowd
“Soon on OTT. Better to watch from the comfort of home.”
Someone tells at the ticket counter like an intellect often found.
Inside, as the show begins, the audience is in emotional zone—
whistles when the good conquers the evil,
hoots like an owl on a good dialogue delivery,
cries as lovers drift apart, someone dies, grief weighing—unequal.
Wired, lonely viewing—reactions dismissed, my emotions splintery.
Gastronomical delights in a nearby restaurant tingle my papillae.
Scanning the menu card, I spell out my preference.
“If delivered online, would’ve saved you the hassle, avoided the delay.”
Electronically, I pine for the cheerful faces of jubilant diners, ecstatic beneficence,
the aroma of delectable dishes competing for supremacy.
Finishing the heart-warming dish, I write a word of appreciation;
at times the chef visits personally, promising to continue the legacy.
Personal touch deficient, machine-driven glum, for human affinity is my only persuasion.
***
Madras Courier originally ran as a broadsheet with a poetry section. It was a time when readers felt comfortable sharing glimpses of their lives through verse. If you have a poem you’d like to submit, do email us at editor@madrascourier.com.
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