Some poet once said it perfectly: "The world changed its gait so fast, it felt like Judgment Day arrived while we were still walking." It’s honestly startling to see how quickly things have shifted. The biggest tragedy hitting our society today? The death of respect. Today’s generation doesn't seem to value their elders—they don't even care for their own traditions.
In some homes, the only reason these traditions even breathe is because the grandparents are still around.
But look at the state of things: a three-year-old will snatch a phone out of their grandfather's hand the second he looks away. "Give me my phone! What are you even looking for in there?" the kid yells. It’s wild—the kid hasn't even learned to speak properly yet, but they've already become a "little professor" of mobile technology.
I remember my own childhood. If we saw an older brother—even if he was just ten or twelve years older—we’d straighten up. We were taught to greet everyone in the mosque, to look after the neighborhood elders, to love the poor. My father and brothers would always greet my grandmother first when they came home. My grandmother was strict, sure. She’d get annoyed with my mother or father over small things, but they never talked back. Not once.
I remember asking my sister, who had been married for eighteen years, why she never answered back when our mother scolded her. She just looked at me and said, "She’s my mother. If I don't give her that respect, who will? I have to live with these people; why would I ruin the atmosphere of my own home?" That’s how it was. Women were simple, noble, and knew how to hold a family together. They were the "coolness" of their parents' eyes and the pride of their in-laws. But times have changed. Now, a girl is barely married before she's being coached by her own parents on "how to keep the husband under her thumb." The focus has shifted from building a home to winning a power struggle.
And then there's the mobile phone. It’s like a plague that’s eaten our social fabric.
Life used to have a rhythm. We had circuses, we had "Mela" (fairs), we had theater. I remember the "Hassan Bano" circus—we’d watch in awe as a girl with a human head and a lion's body (a clever trick of mirrors, we realized later) would talk to us. It was magical. We had the "Well of Death" where motorcyclists would defy gravity. Now? All of that is gone. The cinemas are closed, the theaters are empty. Everything has been sucked into that small glowing screen in your palm.
I miss the neighborliness, too. We used to live in Delhi before the Partition, and even after, the bond was the same. Hindus and Muslims lived like one family. On Holi, we’d send sweets; on Eid, they’d bring us gifts. We shared walls. If someone was sick, the whole street knew. Now? You don't even know who lives two doors down.
We used to sit around the radio, waiting for Studio Number 9 or a specific play. Then came the TV, and we all became "glued" to the screen at 9:00 PM for the news. But even then, we sat together. Now, the mobile has isolated us even when we are in the same room. A father, a mother, and three kids can sit on the same sofa for three hours and not say a single word to each other.
As Iqbal said:
The heart is dead, the rule of machines has come, The sense of compassion is being crushed by these tools.
We’ve become strangers in our own homes. The mobile phone is a necessity, sure, but it’s become a tyrant that has stolen our "Sukoon" (peace).