Every other week, a mysterious folder makes a self-appointed reappearance in my mobile phone gallery. It labels itself as ‘restored’ and is filled with a bunch of photographs that I remember deleting. Yes, I know that files can get restored even from the trash can. And tech wizards can bring the dead back to life, that is, restore files and data even after they have been binned or ‘permanently deleted’ from computers. Hold on, does that mean that the ‘delete’ button isn’t really reliable and that a file that though trashed, can resurrect itself without user permission?
But try tearing up a note or letter into pieces and chucking it away in the trash. Unless you are Holmes or one of those super popular fictional sleuths, it will be an almost impossible task to gather every shred of the document and put it together again, such that it is both legible and legitimate. And needless to say, the note won’t turn up at your front door the next morning, unhurt, unscathed and shining in its pristine form and glory.
That’s the dependability of something tactile. The assurance of it being there when you want it to be there and bidding it a sure shot goodbye, when you want it gone. Perhaps, the tactile quality comes into play the most when it comes to correspondence. A letter of appointment, signed, sealed and delivered that reaches your address, versus an email, saying you have got a job. A handwritten note of appreciation, promotion or affection, versus a sterile beep on the screen that immediately gets lost in a maze of files and scrolls on the mobile. A note or card, that one can hold, read and re-read, treasure and securely tuck away.
And the reverse too. The sense of finality that comes with tearing up an unwanted piece of correspondence. Remember the flushing scene from the movie ‘Jab We Met’ when the hero is advised to tear up his ex’s photograph that he kept with him until he tore it and flushed it away? And his sheepish admission of how that seemingly childish act made him feel good. Yes, a click too may get rid of an unwanted message on the phone. But the act of physically tearing up a once precious document and destroying it comes with an odd sense of closure. A click, on the other hand, though easier, doesn’t have quite the same effect.
Another time, the tactile quality comes into play is when you’re disconnecting a call or putting an end to an unwanted conversation over the phone. The conclusiveness and puerile satisfaction that come from the slamming down of the receiver can’t be found in the swipe of a decline.
The other area where the tactile is making almost a vanishing act is the good old currency note. In the ever-increasing digital age, the question to be asked is no longer whether an establishment, from a fruit seller on the streets to a five-star resort sitting in some faraway corner, accepts UPI or not but whether they would kindly accept cash. The era of ‘cash is king’ seems to have passed us by. But think of all those movies of the 1970s where a black briefcase made almost a mandatory prop, popping up every now and then, either as a blackmailer’s booty or in some smuggling or bribery scene. Typically, a slim briefcase filled with gleaming currency notes neatly tucked in one of his table drawers was an accoutrement that the villain kept handy. And no sooner was the case opened, did the camera pan to the gleaming eyeballs of its would-be recipient. How on earth will a film scene showing an electronic payment succeed in capturing the greedy glint, remain to be seen. But what about the joy of unexpectedly finding a hundred rupee note in the inside pocket of a handbag? Or of receiving one’s first pay cheque versus the first salary that now comes in as an electronic transfer and lands in the mobile as a message?
Want as we might, the tactile is slowly but surely bowing out. From books and letters to invitation cards and cheques, all of it is now an intimation on some screen. As Gulzar sahab expresses in one of his poems, the knowledge that resided in those books, will continue to be available, but what of those dried flowers that stayed pressed between pages? Those flowers will need to search for newer homes.
Supriya Newar is a Kolkata-based writer, poet, music aficionado and communications consultant. She may be reached at connect@supriyanewar.com, Instagram: @supriyanewar, Facebook: supriya.newar and LinkedIn: www.linkedin.com/in/supriya-newar