The Small Town World Of Facebook

At its best, addictive, at its worst, social hara-kiri, where you want to say it all, share it all, after being moored to big-city sensibilities of social indifference for so long. Stepping back in time to the good old days might seem inexplicable and perhaps inexcusable. Yet, I persist in flirting with my past. Once plugged, the fall is absolutely free, unchecked. I am romancing with the virtual world as much as I resist the real one.

Fingertips felt a funny jingling sensation — I miss him on this wet afternoon — but I keyed it nonetheless. Who; all ok; chill girl; take it easy. In a blink, I was the collective responsibility of these virtual people, living thousands of miles away in their own world of real people and real issues. But for reasons unknown, this make-believe world has its own hints of truth, even if touch-and-go.

When was the last time I had bared myself to the public this unpretentiously? A while back, or many whiles back, at a time when all were one. My heartfelt and heartaches were never mine alone; they belonged to everyone. Life would be pathetically incomplete if it was lived in isolation; it ought to be shared. The tais always had an idea or two and the kakis countered with something weightier and more profound. For good or for bad. Oh well! Who cared back then.

Selective amnesia? Honestly, I don’t know, but I don’t see myself very far from the debilitating condition. I have locked myself into a time warp of kakis and tais, doggedly refusing to let go, and not without reason. Those social rules define me, even as I grapple with perceptions diametrically opposed to my small-town values. But then, everything non-conforming to the age-old is simply a departure, an aberration that will ultimately wither to give me back myself, or at least a piece of me. I insist on looking back through these virtual visions.

Ah the memories! Those were the days when the whole family stood in line until the videographer — such a small-town word — shooed us all away, “This is a moving picture that you got to insert in your VCR and watch like a movie.” Embarrassed we would walk around with that cool dude with his gizmo of the 80’s chasing the prettiest. And lord, how can I forget those blank and white valet size photos. As much as I’d love to deny, I had my own stock with that huge, black, corded receiver in one hand and the other running through my hair, and a sheepish grin. Such chilling images!

My virtual family has a way to dig out those moments of funny small-town truism.

From vacations to trips to private moments, I see it all. The content might have changed — suggestive pouts; bold body thrusts; daring necklines; mouthwatering cleavages — but the context remains, as it was always meant to be. I giggle back in time browsing the photos. Love it, love it with all my heart. And in some mysterious way, they have brought out the good old kaki I never thought existed within me. I scan through friends, their families and their families’ family. What a sacrilege it would be if I logged out without my two cents. A 30-some mother of two who I have not seen in decades, but had to — out of some small town value — compliment on her pictures, profusely.

A vacation was a neighbor’s envy. The days I came home red-nosed on hearing about friends and families disappear into the clouds of Shimla, Nainital and Darjeeling. “Lord, how do I possibly make my father see a point in going for vacations, if for nothing than just social standing?”

Today, the backgrounds have changed from demure hill stations to bold Metros and Megapolis — Paris, Istanbul, Tel Aviv — but the zest remains unchanged. As for me, I remain firmly rooted to the wistful, religiously posting a note or two on all take-offs and landings.

It was heady to be associated with our own version of the white crowd in those small towns. For the rest of the not-so-happening crowd, just about everyone maintained a safe distance in the name of cool. This time the syndrome takes the form of this networking website. Do you know how many friendship request are pending because they don’t conform to my style, model and of course oomph appeal? Some who have made it remain on the fringes, just to beef up the head-count.

Love it or hate it, but small town India, with its organic values and earthy rules, remains, if only in traces, in all of us — the good Samaritan neighbors who make up my contact list on Facebook.

From small to big, as neighborhoods mushroom virtually, I marvel not at the complicated coding algorithms that keeps Facebook going and growing, but the IT equivalent of Sigmund Freud, who understood and tied together my basic need for small town settings and all its trappings, even if imaginary.

Lov’ya all for giving me a part of myself!