Lost in the Emoji Explosion

157,439,872. That’s the number of smileys being used this very moment as you sit reading this. One balmy Tokyo afternoon, Shigetaka Kurito sat away plodding on his computer, silently creating history. Little did he realise that the battery of seemingly ridiculous, infantile yellow cartoons that he was coding were soon going to be used by the world in ginormous proportions. Emoji, as they soon came to be called, appear to be throwback to our times of communicating through pictograms and hieroglyphics. As we sit immersed in our little phone worlds, these surrogate faces give expression to our emotions as we talk to each other through screens and say the most important things via texts.

So is the Emoji only for the emotionally stunted, the wallflowers, and the inarticulate?  I think not. We all use Emoji when it’s convenient.  Research states that giving the smiley strong completion is the heart symbol. Love is indeed blossoming everywhere. However I strongly believe that the grinning face emoticon cannot be far behind.  With its half shut eyes and sheepish grin this little face is often used when we have said something embarrassing, when we brag about ourselves, but don’t want to sound too boastful, when we post mushy pictures on Facebook and dread being the object of ridicule amongst our friends.  The grinning face is a face-saver, an excuse for any action. You can text your friend that she looks like a little tomato in that red dress, add the grin and she will probably think you’re being funny. Truth sugar-coated as cute always works.  Emoji soften our emotions and thus been the greatest invention in recent times, saving fights, averting miscommunication and making everything light hearted. They are also very popular among the youth, especially while flirting or engaging in sexual banter. Emoji-sexting maybe juvenile, but it does take the stigma out and allows them to converse with ease, without any moral implications hounding their minds.

Apparently more women use the Emoji than men, corroborating the popular perception that we women are more volatile beings. But a handful of men do find these emoticons handy especially when they want to apologise. “Girls never seem to be satisfied with just a sorry, so I add a string of hearts, throw in a couple of teary eyed faces and factor in the feel- goodness,” said one of my friends. I frantically rummaged through the keyboard to send him a middle finger emoticon.(its time we got one!). For a long time I was probably judgemental too, labelling guys who used the Emoji excessively as effeminate. But perhaps more than effeminate, my grouse should have been that Emoji is now a form of escapism, a tool to hide behind the real emotions. When we have nothing to say but want to be polite we reply with a smiley. When a friend sends what is the 100^th picture of her baby that week, and we are mentally exhausted of using the word cute, we add a few kissing smileys and rest in peace. Last heard, the ISIS is using the Emoji to sound warm!

The Emoji have evolved over the years into not only a language but also a full time hobby for some people, (I am glad we don’t know them!) who translate popular songs like Beyoncé’s ‘ Drunk in love’ and books such as the ‘Moby Dick’ into pages of these graphics. If you want to get a detailed report on your social well-being, emojianalysis .com can do a quite interpretation for you.  Old souls who have no clue if the two hands picture is clapping, praying or saying “Oh god leave me alone’ can visit emojipedia.com that will educate you that its high five.

 

Nevertheless the Emoji are fun, now that all our phones are socially inclusive and offer an interesting palette to choose from, from skin colour to sexual orientation. There are three types of kissing faces, (denoting different relationships? Beats me.), dancing girl, funny cats, a yummy chicken leg and even a pile of smiling poop, which I believe is a lucky symbol for the Japanese! Well, one only hopes that these faces continue to augment our communication and not replace words entirely!

-Originally published in The New Indian Express, Bangalore on the 17th of October 2015

The urge to take that one last Personality Test

Are you an Alien, Predator or Terminator? N peered into my computer screen and scoffed, “that’s easy. You are an alien.” N has always been a hapless victim of my quirks and binging on personality tests is one of them.

I love to present myself as a subject for any psychological test. I’ve been taking them since the time they debuted on sites such as emode and tickle.com and continue to enjoy the random ones on Facebook today.

The other day N caught me taking  “What does the colour of your poop say about you?”  He walked away disgusted. In my defence, the test says a lot more about the employee who ideated it and the boss who approved it than the compulsive test taker, for whom this was just another one! Buzzfeed claims that its recent personality test, “Which city should you live in?” has got the maximum hits in recent history.

Personality quizzes are the latest fad and the Internet is threatening to crash under them. From fascinating to downright asinine, these tests promise to offer a window into our soul, by slotting us into a category. “Who is your celebrity soul mate?” “Which Greek god do you resemble?” “Which Harry potter character are you?” You are Remus Lupin. Damn it. I wanted someone cooler. I retake the test, this time giving the answers more thought. Lupin again. I let it slide, nobody needs to know. I did get Derek Shepherd in the “ Which Greys Anatomy character are you?” and it called for some serious flaunting. Many would argue that these tests are meant to be flippant and do not require so much thought or analysis. Agreed, given that some of the questions are preposterous and have no connection with the test. The poop test for instance wanted to know my favourite sport! Also, shouldn’t we ask our partner ‘how good we are in bed?’ or ‘where should our next tattoo be?’, than treat our computer as an Ouija board?

As the little dots circle our screen, busy calculating the test results, we wait, secretly hoping it unravels facets our personality that we never knew existed. We want to see if the arbitrary algorithm that some unsuspecting techie devised could unlock a hidden alter ego. We want to be the Dark Knight. Social media is notorious for swinging us like a pendulum. We either become supremely confident or wallow in self-doubt. These tests offer validation or dispel our fears. At the root of it lie the answers to deep sociological questions like, what we think about ourselves and what we think others think of us. So when the pop window on our screen says that ‘Golden retriever’ is our ‘Inner dog’ we pat ourselves in the back. We always knew that we are immensely lovable.

Tests apart, one quick look at our online behaviour is enough to sketch our personality profiles.  So which social media animal are you? We have a medley of ‘over-sharers’, the ’like mongers’, the ‘chronic –likers’, the ‘over-reactor’s etc. N is a Facebook watchman. You think he hates the damn site until you see the notification, ‘N is now friends with 9 people’. Our man scrolls through his feed every hour albeit without leaving a trail. However watchmen are infinitely better than the Facebook sly. She is the friend who routinely stalks you, and on principle refrains from commenting or liking your new Goa album. Although, she silently keeps tabs on your increasing waistline. I am the shy exhibitionist. Too shy to do any self-promotion but would be very happy if you could upload the party pictures where I am looking fab or share my latest article.

It’s been seven tests in half an hour. I may need a test that asks, “ Should you quit taking tests?”  But the suggestions from Zimbio are irresistible and I take what I tell myself is the last one, “Which social media are you?” Pinterest it says. “You are a community mom”. Whatever that means. But given that “How old are you based on your Internet habits,” mentioned that I am in the 40’s, looks like the algorithm is painting a pattern.  I press shutdown.

 -Originally published in The New Indian Express, Bangalore on 10th October 2015 

What the media explosion hasn't managed to kill

“I know what you are doing, I am as media savvy as you,” I growl. Its insulting to my intelligence when girls think I don’t know what they are doing when I catch them staring at the insides of their bag with sudden interest or worse smiling at their crotches.  These days one cannot bear the urge to respond to a funny text. However everyone is silently texting and not jabbering loudly, sparing teachers from comparing them to ‘fish markets’ like they have done since time immemorial.

What is it like to be a teacher in the era of media explosion? Grey clouds hover over the Bangalore sky and a mild rain wets the windowpanes. Just as I cuddle further into the folds of my comforter, I am woken up by a string of beeps. Not the chiming of my alarm that I expect to hear but texts that read” Hello ma’am, do we have college today?” and other variants such as “Maaaaa’am, the road outside my house is flooded.” One kind soul throws in a “Good Morning”. N stirs in his covers, as he sees me furiously typing away, “If the government declares a holiday, it is.” An answer well known, but yet they badger thinking their 30-year-old mentor in pyjamas through some divine intervention will grant them one.

The more media savvy you are, the more accessible you are and therefore the cooler you are considered. With the death of text messaging, Whatsapp has changed the student –teacher dynamics. Classes have groups, so instead of laboriously texting every sleepy girl, I post on the group, to which they respond with beaming smileys or crying yellow faces. Now they catch me ‘online’ and clarify their doubts. Virtual tutor to the rescue.

Writing notes has now become passé. I’m either asked to mail the ppt or let them take pictures of my notes, to be posted on the group. While sitting at the library the other day, I caught one of the class nerds roaming around with an iPad. She was busy leafing through a book and taking photos. Bigger images and better resolution you see. Well, I am just happy she was visiting the library.

As exams draw closer, the Whatsapp messages become more frantic. Photos of the exam timetable are now circulated. As the clock ticks, answer papers are anxiously filled with feverish scribbles that I have to play detective to decipher.  Acronyms go on a rampage. Sry mam no time. Hv to rite ASAP.

Facebook cannot be far behind. Everyone waits for that one girl to test waters and send you a request. I quickly scan my profile, hunting for any unsavoury photos or tawdry conversation and contemplate if my dress could be a few inches longer in the display picture. For once you press ‘accept’, the floodgates open and there is no looking back. I get a sneak peak into their colourful lives, their vociferous rants and interesting alter egos, just as they do. The stalking becomes mutual.

Internet inter-connects and reconnects, especially after a class graduates. Come teacher’s day, the same Facebook wall is splattered with messages of love and fond memories, reassuring me of my love for the job. Students from various batches write in from diverse parts of the globe to say hello. Lines blur as we chat and exchange stories It’s always nice to hear the ping of an email, especially when it’s from an old student, who writes in to say that she is studying journalism from Columbia University. Strangely it invokes maternal feelings, seeing her fulfil what I couldn’t. Sentiments overload, computer crashes.

While I am revelling in this euphoria,I receive a tiny envelope by post that reads “Dear Shakti Ma’am’” in beautiful calligraphic handwriting. From Shreya it says.Shreya was one of the quietest girls in class.She sat in the left corner,made eye contact at times, and rarely smiled.  But her assignments oozed of creativity and a very rare mind. She hardly spoke in class and I barely interacted with her too.

 A little handmade card emerges and reads “ Dear Shakti Ma’am, Thank you very much for your classes. I  really miss them.”

Media be damned.This feeling is unparalleled

-Originally published in the column 'Pop Pourri' The New Indian Express, Bangalore on 26th Sept 2015.

life in the age of the selfie

Everybody has their spouse’s one best friend that they want to impress. Mine was Shravan who enjoyed mothering N. When we first met, I expected him to run his checks, to see if I complied with the background information that he had been collecting. Just as I was about to exchange a few mundane pleasantries, he remarked, “Hey Shakti you look just like your FB profile picture!” I blushed. It was the best compliment I had received. He had just aced my test.

We are the generation whose thumb eternally twiddles the phone camera and editing software post that. We want to document everything. And showcase on social media thereafter. Our motto being, let’s take a flurry of pictures, the odds are at least one of them will look good. Every time we wear a new dress it warrants a picture. Meet-ups must always end with the customary group huddle for a selfie. We also like to stage the candid shots.

It’s hard for me to compete with these gym selfies, the filmy wedding albums, party pictures that incite our FOMO, ‘the exotic vacation albums’, and certainly not the scrumptious food platters. Right now I can contest only in the ‘see -how -cute -my -baby –is’ category, and the chronic lack of sleep isn’t helping that cause either.

There comes a good day, when the sun bathes the room with perfect lighting, the hair behaves itself and the zits make a brief disappearance. I employ the perfect angle at which my cheeks appear less chubby, and flash the perfect number of teeth. Yet I have to plead my innocence with #nofilter!

I recently read a story on HP inventing a new wearable camera, which is always on to capture all our life moments. Well Google Glass is already here. But let’s face it; we aren’t leading the most exciting of lives. We never meet the cute co-passenger we have instant chemistry with. Adventure is when we get lost in the maze of our city traffic. Instead of being the ‘cool’ person that I think I am, I am now busy scrutinising the colour of my baby’s poop. Imagine, our wearable cameras are going to churn our footage more boring than an apartment lobby’s CCTV.

  At the risk of sounding old I must say that I marvel at today’s young girls’ enthusiasm and effortless posing for the camera. I had shepherded a bunch of 20 year olds on a college trip. “This is the temple where Buddha attained enlightenment,” said the tour guide. “Wow” they chimed. Out came the cameras. Inhibitions were shed, tresses were tousled up and hands were strategically placed on the hips. The girls who I had labelled as coy magically metamorphosed into pouting divas. The next one-hour rushed past in furious clicks from different angles. By then everyone had forgotten who Buddha was, including me.  

During all the marvelling I realised that I am in the process of raising one of gen –next too. I still look cock eyed in all my futile selfie attempts, not knowing where exactly to focus, but my eight-month-old daughter never misses the target. Evolution has already prepared her for the survival of the fittest!

When N and I decided to get married I squabbled (unsuccessfully) with my father over doing away with the reception. “I feel stupid, standing and clicking pictures,” I groaned. My legs throbbed with pain. “But how else will we know who came?”  My mother argued. As an afterthought the albums certainly helped given that the whole spectacle seemed like a blur. Our parents may be a generation older but we are no different, this desire to document every moment seems to have only doubled with ours. 

We will never find the sepia toned photo, partially crumpled and fading at the edges, in the pages of a book and remember the story behind it. We are owners of hard disks with gargantuan masses of pictures that will perhaps never be revisited. Here I am, desperately waiting to document my daughter’s first walk. She’s probably going to fall fat on the floor not being able to see her mother’s reassuring smile. Well, obviously it’s hidden behind the camera.

-Originally published in the column 'Pop Pourri', The New Indian Express, Bangalore, September 19th 2015

'Are we staring at our phones too much?

My husband, lets call him N is what you could call a ‘screen junkie’. It’s a deadly affliction that can damage a few grey cells, distort vision and even break up a marriage. He has this perpetual need to stare at some screen all the time; TV, a phone, a laptop, anything. A recent study concluded that the average youngster in India spends 10 hours of his day watching some screen. They were talking about N.

Its 8:oo AM .The phone buzzes signaling a flurry of incoming emails. With eyes half shut and crouched in the darkest corner of the sofa with a teacup precariously hanging down the crook of his hand, N sifts through the mails, mentally planning the day (that’s what he claims). While sitting on the pot, it’s Facebook scrolling time. In between he attends to a few Whatsapp pings. At office it’s another painful eight hours of drubbing away on the laptop, multitasking with several pages open. Back home at 6 pm, he flops on the recliner and starts playing FIFA on the Xbox, his eyes transfixed on the animated Arsenal men. And as he ‘distresses’ I sit beside him and talk to his right ear, recounting the day with a motley of news, gossip, and grievances.

 When we first moved into our apartment all the furniture were arranged against the wall, pointing at the TV, as if to say that the guests who come in should also watch the on going cricket match with minimal interruption. I suggested a conversation pit, to arrange the furniture in right angles so that we wouldn’t have to lean forward while talking or talk to each other’s side profiles. N finally gave in, but not without making some disparaging comments about womenfolk having to talk all the time instead of just chilling. Our conversations are now punctuated by sitcom laugh tracks and Arnab hollers through our dinners. Sometimes we call it a day by binge watching some television show on the laptop.  The iPad is another story. Everyone I know strongly condemns the use of it by children until they have one of their own. With parenthood the iPad transforms into this magical device that gives one some ‘me time while our child is busy learning to make cup cakes with Barbie.

Stuck at the traffic signal or waiting in a queue?  We fish out our smartphone and start reading an inane forward on a chat group or analyse our friend’s photo shopped display picture. What starts of checking one trailer on YouTube slowly cascades into a chain of random videos. Time flies by. The other day at the endoscopy Centre, while I was busy choking on the tube that was lunging into my stomach, the doctor was hell bent on giving me a tour of my insides on the TV monitor to my side.  A screen to the rescue once again. “Can you see your heart pulsating against your esophagus?” he said. My dying wish was not be a witness to own heart stop beating.

Until the smart phone happened I loved sitting in airports for hours, for the sheer people watching potential it offers- the whole gamut of human idiosyncrasies and relationships on display.  But these days I catch the young engrossed in swiping right and left on Tinder profiles much like a videogame while married souls like me kill time by checking what’s for dinner on the ’Fresh Menu’ app.

Whatever happened to good old reading and staring into empty space? Spa rituals and Suryanamaskars must make way for the more important digital detox. When I did suggest it to N the other day, he looked at me flummoxed as though I was accusing him of infidelity.

It’s unfortunate that for most of us work is on the laptop. For instance, this column isn’t going to write by itself. But have you caught up on this new Game of Thrones fan theory that is doing the rounds? Maybe I will it read now, while my brain gently warms up.

Originally published in the column 'Pop Pourri', The New Indian Express, Bangalore 29th Aug 2015