Looking Back to Move Forward: A Reflection on Simpler Times
As I sit down to write this in 2025, I find myself looking back—not out of nostalgia alone, but in search of lessons that the past might offer us. The past is often a treasure trove of wisdom, a guide that, if heeded, can illuminate a path toward a better future. And in a world where our lives have become increasingly chaotic, hyper-connected, and cluttered with digital distractions, I feel an urge to revisit moments from my life when simplicity was not just a choice but a way of being.
This is not about glorifying the past but about making it relevant—reintroducing its richness into our present so that it fuels a more meaningful future. My writings today are based on my perspective on digital minimalism, which may evolve over time. As Mahatma Gandhi once said in his autobiography, later reflections should be seen as improved versions of earlier thoughts rather than contradictions. Perhaps, in doing so, I can offer the younger generation a glimpse of what we once had, not as an artifact of nostalgia but as a compass for recalibrating our present lives.
Window 1: A Day in Savadi (Late 1980s – Early 1990s)
A summer morning in Savadi began with silence—no automobiles for miles, no buzzing notifications, no alarms except for the natural symphony of chirping birds and rustling leaves. We woke up to the warmth of the morning sun, our first gaze upon the vast open sky, the lush greenery of our garden. There was no phone, no television, no tape recorder—just an old radio crackling with life.
The day was slow, but it was full. We swam in the river, bought fresh fruits and berries at the village bazaar—no UPI, just cash, and sometimes barter. Sugarcane was a delicacy, its sweet juices trickling down our hands as we bit into the fibrous stalks. Life was lived in the moment—no instant messages, no digital calendars, just the natural rhythm of sunrise and sunset.
Lunch was an occasion, where stories flowed as freely as the food. There was no news bombardment, no distractions—just human voices, laughter, and the scent of home-cooked meals filling the air. We listened intently to stories about our father’s whereabouts and updates about distant relatives, passed down through word of mouth. We watched our mother and grandmother doing household chores, played rural games near the house amid the sounds of birds and buffaloes, and sometimes played cards or board games with family members.
In the evenings, we took long walks to the farm, played in the open fields, and returned home as the sun dipped behind the horizon, accompanied by the sounds of crickets and birds retreating to their nests. There were no automobiles; our world was wrapped in the stillness of nature. There was no electricity; our nights were lit by moonlight and the gentle glow of oil lamps. We ended the day with storytelling, antakshari, and songs from the radio, sleeping under the open sky, the rustling coconut trees whispering lullabies to us.
Window 2: A Day in Billur (Mid-1990s)
Mornings in Billur began with devotion. The songs from Gurubasaveshwar Mutt filled the air, sometimes accompanied by the soulful voice of a local singer standing outside, offering hymns to the morning. We brushed our teeth outside in the open courtyard, surrounded by dozens of cousins, chattering away even before the day had properly begun.
Tea was a grand event—a sea of people gathered in the kitchen, sharing warmth and laughter. My grandfather would light the firewood to heat water for our baths. A faint hum of Lata Mangeshkar’s songs from Sangli AM station played in the background as life unraveled in its own leisurely pace. Cricket was our religion, and the day was structured around it—hours of play before breakfast, again before lunch, and often until dusk.
Meals were incomplete without mangoes—sometimes eaten before lunch, sometimes with lunch, sometimes even replacing lunch! Television had made its way into our lives, but it was communal. We watched movies together, cheered for our favorite cricket teams, and laughed over the same sitcoms. After evening tea, we would either go for a walk in the countryside, telling stories, or gather at the high school ground for more games.
Evenings meant sitting outside under the peepal tree, sharing stories, and playing antakshari with elders and cousins alike. Dinners were accompanied by pravachan from the mutt, and as night fell, we lay outside under the stars, listening to the elders' conversations before sleep took over.
Window 3: A Day in Athani (Late 1990s, School Days)
School days in Athani had a rhythm of their own. Mornings were about discipline—cleaning the bed, filling water, finishing homework. On some days, I would head to the bus stand to collect milk cans from the village, a task that had to be completed with precision before 11 AM.
Getting ready for school was simple—no checking messages, no last-minute emails, just a routine as steady as the rising sun. We cycled to school, free of tracking apps or concerned texts from parents. At school, there were no mobile phones, no WhatsApp groups, no earphones dangling from our ears—just friendships formed through conversations, pranks, and shared moments.
Lunch breaks meant playing games, buying Pepsi for 50 paise, and relishing tamarind mixed with salt. There was no internet for instant homework solutions, no YouTube tutorials—learning happened through teachers and textbooks, and sometimes, through sheer trial and error. We drank water from roadside hand pumps, played till dusk, and cycled home telling stories. Evenings were for WWE, video games at a friend’s house, or simply watching a daily soap with family. As bedtime approached, we listened to songs on a tape recorder—no algorithm deciding our next song, just a cassette rewound to our favorite track.
Lessons from the Past: A Call to Recalibrate
These glimpses from my childhood are just fragments of a larger, richer life we once lived—one that was slower, yet deeper. A life where our minds, though engaged and productive, were calm and unburdened. A life where relationships were built face-to-face, where resilience was forged in real-world experiences, and where happiness wasn’t measured in notifications and screen time.
Today, we are busier than ever, yet something essential has been stripped away. We no longer sit with family the way we used to. We don’t play creatively, nor do we take responsibility for our lives without seeking digital validation. Where, then, will our resilience come from? If we do not pause and reclaim what we have lost, we will remain mere consumers of a manufactured reality, victims of circumstances rather than the architects of our own lives.
A Personal Plea for Change
My honest appeal to you is this—look back at your simpler, richer self and recalibrate your present. Limit your dependence on technology, using it only when it truly adds value to your life, rather than for fleeting dopamine hits. The moment we approach the modern world with intention, we will start to see the hidden treasures we have overlooked—the richness of genuine presence, of unfiltered joy, of life lived fully rather than observed from behind a screen.
I write this after more than a month of digital detox, inspired by a book by Cal Newport. His appeal for digital minimalism is compelling, yet I feel nostalgia plays an equally crucial role. Nostalgia does not merely remind us of what we once had; it helps us reclaim who we truly are. It is not about resisting progress but about choosing what is worth carrying forward. My past has always helped accelerate my future, and I hope, in some way, it will guide yours too.
The time to reclaim our true, richer selves is now.
