Sometimes, I truly believe a quick trip back to the 1970s or 80s might do us all a world of good. Not to escape – but to remember. Three years after COVID, life has hit the fast-forward button again. Yet, amidst all the zooming, swiping, and multitasking, one can’t help wondering – what happened to the slow, warm rhythm of community life we once had?
Back then, we didn’t need “family time” reminders on our phones. We just had family – always around. Children didn’t need “playdate requests”. They simply appeared at your doorstep, barefoot, carrying a half-deflated football and an abundance of noise. Parents didn’t schedule “quality time”. It just happened, somewhere between curd rice and a power cut.
We didn’t need WhatsApp to stay connected. One shout from the balcony – “Amma, sugar illa!” – and within minutes, a neighbour would appear with half a cup of sugar and a full dose of conversation. If someone fell sick, the news travelled faster than the 12B bus. By evening, there’d be rasam, kashayam, and five aunties stationed at your bedside, each with their own home remedy and opinion.
But in 2025, things feel different. Everyone’s calendar is full, inbox overflowing, and hearts – well, sometimes a little empty. We chase salary hikes, promotions, and “likes”, but where’s the joy of helping someone fix a leaking tap or lending an ear over a tumbler of hot filter coffee?
Maybe it’s time to ask ourselves: what do we really want to pass on to the next generation? A shiny gadget, or a sense of belonging?
Bringing back the warmth of community doesn’t require grand gestures. It starts small – a shared smile, a chat with your security guard, a quick “Come, have tea” to the neighbour you have only waved to for years. Reviving our old “adjust maadi” spirit might just be the most modern thing we do.
And perhaps it’s time to bring back our forgotten arts – mending, reusing, forgiving. Repair the broken stool, yes – but also the slightly cracked friendship. Pass on our stories – the funny ones, the flawed ones, the ones that smell of rain and old wood cupboards.
Because the soul of a city like Chennai has always been this – warmth in simplicity. We may live in high-rises now, but true connection still happens at ground level – over laughter, shared mistakes, and an occasional bowl of sambar.
So, shall we? Let’s dial the 1970s once more. Dust off the radio, step out to the terrace, and pour that extra tumbler of coffee for a neighbour. Who knows – the 70s might just pick up the call and say, “Long time no see, da!”