A Love Letter to the 80s and 90s

There was a time when childhood in Assam was painted in the soft sepia tones of simplicity, laced with the sourness of  "tenga morton" and the sweetness of "bubble gum". Yes, there was a world before wi-fi signals, smartphones, and “parental controls.” It was a time when “network” meant the strength of friendships, not the bars on a phone.

Our mornings began with the crowing of roosters or with our mothers' scoldings (not with notification pings). The air was heavy with the smell of damp earth, boiled milk and fragrance of flowers. School uniforms dried on drying ropes in the courtyard, stiff and sun-crisped, while mothers shouted reminders about lunch boxes that mostly contained roti and aloo bhaji, boiled eggs, and the eternal favorite bread and jam.

The walk to the bus - stop was an adventure in itself. Some of my friends rode bicycles too big for their legs, balancing like acrobats; others walked in groups, trading stories about the book fair, greetings-card at the Archies Gallery or the neighbor’s son who had  a “Walkman.” The roads were commutable with the lesser vehicles, the clanging of cycle bells, and the laughter of children kicking pebbles on the way. Recess at school wasn’t about screens or social media; it was about who first reached the dusty playground. And when the final bell rang, we sprinted home like Olympic sprinters for Doordarshan and not for coaching centers. He-Man, Mowgli, and Ramayan were our Netflix, and the herringbone - antenna was our most trusted technology which needed an able hand's twist “just so” that someone shouted, “Bas! Bas! Don’t move!”

Evenings were chasing fireflies and eating tamarind wrapped in tiny polythene packs. Friendships were forged over sharing tiffins and fights settled with a handshake before sunset. None of us had “followers,” but everyone had a “best friend.”

Festivals were the heartbeat of our year. Bihu meant the smell of pithas frying, the echo of "husori" and the excitement of new clothes. And oh, the monsoons! The world turned green and alive. Paper boats floated down muddy drains, frogs croaked like an orchestra, and schools closed without a WhatsApp message as word simply spread through neighborhood whispers and the laughter of drenched children.

Looking back, there was a quiet magic in that analog life. We didn’t have Google, yet we found answers in our grandparents’ stories. We didn’t have playlists, but we hummed songs from All India Radio or from the cassette - player. We didn’t have selfies, yet every photograph carried the warmth of a moment lived, not curated. Today, as algorithms decide what we should see and AI writes bedtime stories for our children, I can’t help but feel a tug of longing for those days when imagination was our only technology. We built worlds out of mud, dreams out of clouds, and friendships out of shared laughter.

There was no “artificial” in our intelligence. Rather, there were only curiosity, wonder, imagination and heart. Maybe that’s what we have lost a little of, in exchange for convenience, namely,  the tender humanness of being beautifully imperfect and gloriously alive.