The term for people like me, I believe, is ‘refusenik’. As is typical with many Americanisms, this word resonates with sound over substance; a label when judiciousness would do. The fact that this term arrives from a country that has taught us the meaning of the word ‘choice’ in its most flagrant application is no small irony. And this is perhaps the space for it, India being so drawn to Americana even if it is in the worship of the darker side of liberty, or global warming.
Choice is a wonderful thing, a treasure beyond price. And so, I choose to wear a watch that is older than my nearly-teen daughter as it’s a gift from a friend. My car is six years old, with a dented fender where an indolent cow in a Goan bylane chose to rest her not inconsiderable rump. The machine purrs; I plan to drive it for as long as it will efficiently run. I possess a mobile phone handset that, when activated, say, at the end of a flight, marks me out as a telecommunications ancient. No matter.
For me, Blackberries are fruit. A Tweet suits an overworked manager or underworked minister, twitchy thumbs pecking away at a tiny machine that sells instant connectivity as money, metaphysics and mojo.
Choice is sweet. And so, people like us wear clothes without any sense of deficiency in purpose or style. We do not need people to tell us from one year to another if brown, blue or white are “the new black”; as a species, we are sufficiently evolved to be able to tell one colour from another. We are not swayed by what soaps and movies dictate as ensembles for work and weddings; or how we should speak. We visit a place because we want to visit it, not because a society jockey tells us to. The food we eat and restaurants we visit are decided by various degrees of mood, proximity and practicality, not by a food writer’s plug about his favourite eatery or hotel chain. We are blissfully disinterested in the Bachchans, and the multiplicity of Khans. We couldn’t care less which Indian cricketer owns a ‘Hummer’, except to suggest that he plant a forest of willows as penance.
And yet, we have a life. It’s immensely liberating—exhilarating even—to be in a zone where peer pressure is unwelcome and herd mentality more so. It’s like slow travel: breathe deep; smell what fresh air one can; move gently; reduce litter and clutter. We have learnt to live without fear or favour, obsolescence, and crisis of identity. It adds hours to my day and, I hope, will add years to my life. It turns socio-economic and psychological storms into a sea of calm; a space of crisis into a space of opportunity so the everyday world becomes a place not of refusal, but of participation by choice—the way choice is meant to be.
To be fair, such preference is subjective. It would be hypocritical of me to freely use the Internet and mobile telephony and at the same time decry its conjoining in the Blackberry. My insistence on using clothes where brands are not displayed on clothing or footwear—or, indeed, buying products for their utility instead of bling—could be termed reverse snobbery; exclusivist by personal preference instead of monetary or sartorial reach. An unkind cut could be: sour grapes. I haven’t money to burn, so I’m leery of those who do.
Let there be automatic mysteries for those who need them; and let us keep our easier-paced ones. People like me are against the sophistry that trends accord, the keep-up-to-get-ahead phenomenon that marketers seek to showcase belonging in a group as emphatic perpetuation of the species.
We are against blind faith. By choosing to not be part of this religion permits us to carry luggage or wear clothes without magic alphabets so worshipped in Barcelona, and so easily replicated in Bangkok that self-importance is rendered counterfeit. It spares us imbuing a brand of watch with locked mysteries from a distant Teutonic past; when in reality the chunky bits of stainless steel translate as Day-Year.
Or, say, worshipping songs in Latin languages only to appear fashionable. In reality, many of these, often delivered by frightfully good-looking and exuberant singers, provide words of lobotomised simplicity. One such song in Spanish urged me this past week: “Dance! I want you—now!” I switched stations on the car stereo—a six-year-old stereo.
(Sudeep Chakravarti is a columnist, and a writer of narrative non-fiction and fiction.
He lives in Goa.)
