Strategic timeout in dire straits

Chintu, the snot-nosed eight-year-old from next door, has this endearing habit of floating in in and out of our apartment. Not a single day passes without him wandering in, casually inspecting our fridge for a snack, and taking a banana or whatever else that isn’t nailed down.

- K.C. VERMA

Yesterday, he sauntered into my study while I was watching the news. The TV anchor, clearly operating on fumes and hyperbole, was breathlessly announcing the imminent use of nuclear weapons, with dramatic footage of fighter jets and tanks rolling across the screen.

Chintu burst out laughing. “Uncle, why are you playing my war video game?” With a shock, I realised that in this age of deepfakes, old fogeys like me can no longer distinguish between reality and algorithmic mischief.

Embarrassed, I quickly flicked to another channel. There, a suited diplomat, a half-naked astrologer, a kathak dancer, and a retired general were screaming and apparently fighting over a cooking gas cylinder.

“Why do they all shout at the same time, uncle?” Chintu asked innocently.

Out of the mouths of brats, indeed, cometh wisdom. I had no answer. Desperate for respite, I switched to an IPL match. The commentators were marginally less hysterical, but a smug ticker informed viewers that noise in the stadium had hit 121 decibels. Grok, my Al sage, informed me that this level is ‘Dangerous: can cause permanent hearing damage in nine to 30 seconds.’

Enough! I switched the TV off, shooed Chintu out, and escaped to the condo park where old fogeys like me gather every evening. We grandly style ourselves the “FourEss”—the Samosa and Serious Study Set; but we fool no one. We remain a bunch of sad old retirees with little in common, except having time on our hands and a weakness for samosas.