Sushmita Bose :
One of my closest friends has her birthday on 25 September; on 22 September, I got a message from my smartphone, on my smartphone, egging me on to wish the same friend… because it’s her birthday. On 22 September. Since it was a particularly manic day, I believed my phone, disregarded my self-attested fading memory and called her. “Well,” she said in a composed voice, “it’s nice of you to call – and it’s nicer to hear your voice, but it’s not my birthday, babe… That’s on the 25th.” And then, “Tell me you did not forget my birthday!”
I should have known better. My smarty-pants phone is sync-ed in with Facebook, and, apparently, my friend had posted something about her ‘birthday’ gifts already arriving on her wall; so Smarty picked up on the cues and decided to flag me (three days later, it again sent me a reminder – this time, for the socially-correct date/occasion).
It’s all very unnerving, this tendency of trying to second-guess in an attempt to make life easier for the customer – who is king (or queen). I find it generally annoying and, at times, downright creepy (like when a particularly bad selfie is circulated down the line – broadcast is the technologically-correct term – because I nervously/mistakenly press a persistent button that keeps popping up). They are saying that there will be a time, soon, when smartphones will shape our thoughts, and one will be as smart as one’s smartphone is… we’ll be, literally, walking the talk.
I am not of a fan of technology and I firmly believe that Smarty and its ilk have had a dehumanising effect on homo sapiens, while holding the species in thraldom. Having said that, I have to admit there have been some rather nice interfaces. I particularly love it that the alarm system is so evolved now. Till some time back, each time you set your ‘wake up call’ on your cell, you would be rudely woken up at the crack of dawn by a jarring monotone. It could give you a migraine. These days, you are almost lulled back into a state of wakefulness. The alarm starts off as a thoughtful hum subsumed in comforting sounds of waves gently lapping on shores, and then gathers momentum as your brains slowly moves to an even keel. Wonderful! I like that you can download Adele’s Set Fire To The Rain and listen to it in bed like it was a lullaby or something. I’ve discovered an overtly social side to myself thanks to apps like Whatsapp and BBM. And I’m infused with a false sense of security about my filmmaking abilities when I create short snatches of moving pictures on Story Maker; maybe smartphones make me delusional – but, hey, more power to them.
Recently, I downloaded a free app (it actually happened by chance, when I touched an icon above the one I had to touch in order to play a round of Sudoku) that keeps track of the number of steps every day. Alongside, it also calculates the number of calories I am expending. What did I say about being delusional?
Smartphones, in the palm of our hands, are a manifestation of tech overtaking our lives. We’ve been copouts, willing genuflectors, happy to be guided and auto prompted. A couple of days ago, I read the bizarre findings of a survey: 77 per cent respondents (in a developing market like India, so imagine how far gone the figures would be if it were a developed one) said that, by 2025, they would have been to a house that speaks to them and reads their mind. My hand is already talking to me. And reading my mind.
