To unplug or not

Toast finished, medicine taken, I reach for my phone, my fingers moving with a well-rehearsed choreography — tap, swipe, tap. I pull the world into my palm through the portal of Instagram. A scroll through messages, a peek into lives unfolding elsewhere, the tiny rush of being tethered to voices that matter to me. But today, something is off. The familiar flood of posts does not greet me. Instead, I am met with a login screen.

My heart skips. I frown, thumb in my credentials. Nothing. Try again, slower. The app refuses me entry. A ripple of unease disturbs the morning calm. I pace, mind leaping through possibilities —was I hacked? Is the service down? Password reset, app rebooted — nothing changes. It is an absurd thing, this anxiety over an app, and yet, it unsettles me. Instagram is not just pixels and posts— it is memory and mind, connection and community, a living room where laughter lingers long after a story has been told. To be locked out feels like finding the doors of my home bolted from the outside.

The irony is not lost on me. Just days ago, my brother, Samir Saran, had announced the imminent arrival of his new book, Geo Techno Graphy, co-authored with Anirban Sarma — a tome born of 12 years of research on all things digital, all things connected. And now here I was, exiled from the very space his words would soon explore. A joke the universe had played at my expense.

I shake off the unease, knowing that by 2 pm, I will be in Janakpuri, at the home of my mentee, business partner, and friend, Vardaan. And today is no ordinary meal — this is the first meal he and his new bride, Shavika, will share with their family after their wedding. His father, mother, brother and sister-in-law, and I — his mentor, his guide, the father he chose — will sit together, breaking bread and marking the moment where his past and future meet.

The car glides through the streets of Delhi, the city rushing past me, unfiltered by the distraction of my phone. Vendors arranging marigolds, schoolchildren in crisp uniforms, the melody of a street musician’s flute weaving through the chaos. Normally, I would have been lost to Instagram, my thumb scrolling through feeds, but today, the world unfolds in real time.

When I arrive, I step into the embrace of a home thrumming with new beginnings. We do not sit at a dining table but lounge in the sun-dappled living room, plates balanced on our laps, conversation flowing between bites of matar pulao. The rice is fragrant, each grain infused with khada garam masala, the peas bursting with sweetness. On the side, Gorakhpuri mirch ka achar — a pickle of stuffed peppers, fiery and bold, a contrast to the warmth of the rice.

But more than the meal, it is the moment that fills me. This is family taking shape before my eyes. The son and daughter of two different homes becoming the joint anchors of another. The past and future seated side by side, voices interwoven, laughter bubbling over the rim of time itself.

Later, I return to my mother’s home, where another meal waits — rajma and chawal, matar-gajar-aloo sabzi, gobhi ki sabzi, pyaaz ka lachaa, raita. My nephew Karun, Aruna Maasi, my friend Parabjot from Jammu, all gathered around the table. We eat slowly, the warmth of the food a mirror to the warmth of the company. My phone remains untouched.

But in the back of my mind, the digital world hums. The thousands of connections, the conversations waiting in unopened messages, the stories I will share, the people — some known, some strangers — who will respond. Instagram is not merely a habit, it is a home, a place where lives overlap, where thoughts find form, where strangers become friends, and friends, family.

And yet, there is something about this silence, this space where the digital does not intrude, that feels sacred too.

Much later, I curl into my armchair, a book resting in my hands — Nalanda: The Great University and Its World by Abhay K. And as I turn the pages, something inside me shifts.

Nalanda. A thousand years ago, a beacon of learning, where scholars and seekers travelled across lands, across lifetimes, to sit beneath its red-brick courtyards, to debate and discover, to share knowledge and stories that would endure. It was not just a university; it was a web of human connection.

Xuanzang, the Chinese monk, travelled to Nalanda in search of wisdom, carrying back manuscripts that would shape his homeland’s understanding of the world. The journey was long, arduous, but it was made because the thirst to connect, to learn, was greater than the distance.

And isn’t that what we do now? Isn’t that what the digital world has become — a Nalanda of our own making, where knowledge moves at the speed of light, where voices carry across borders, where stories find new homes in places we will never set foot in?

I think of all the people I have met, the strangers who have become familiar, the fleeting exchanges that have left lasting imprints. My Instagram, my digital world, is its own grand monastery —conversations under shaded trees, thoughts exchanged across vast distances, a network of minds stretching across continents.

When I pick up my phone again, 16 hours later, the screen lights up. The flood of messages, notifications, posts and comments rush in. But this time, I do not feel overwhelmed. I feel something else — relief. Fullness. Fulfillment.

I scroll, not mindlessly, but with intention. A friend has shared a photo of her newborn. A writer has posted a quote that lingers in my mind. A story unfolds before my eyes, one frame at a time.

And then, I post my own — a group selfie from lunch, our smiles easy, our plates half-finished. “16 hours offline, and what did I do? Reconnected with old friends over food that warms the soul. Worth it. “(But oh man, I missed you, Insta!).” I tag Vardaan and Shavika, adding a peas emoji for good measure.

The balance is clear. Life is richest when lived in both realms — the tangible and the digital, the quiet conversations and the ones that span oceans. Nalanda was not just a place; it was an idea, a longing, a need. And that need still pulses through us today.

The past and the present, the digital and the tangible, the fleeting and the eternal — all of it exists in harmony.

And in the stillness of the night, I know I am whole.