(Where the mind is without fear And the head is held high; Where knowledge is free; Where the world has not been broken up into fragments by narrow domestic walls;)
~ Rabindranath Tagore
Oh dear Tagore! the lament of the written words—this sacred art, Once a medium for profound contemplation, it has now been diminished to the triviality of emails and text messages.
I can’t help, but imagine how you might have navigated this digital chaos.Perhaps you would have found yourself calling as an Instagram poet, crafting pithy 280-character gems of wisdom into condensed, bite-sized pieces perfectly suited for the fleeting attention spans of scrolling fingers. Your insightful reflections on the human condition would likely be drowned in a sea of hashtags like #LiteraryNoble and #nobleforlikes, lost amid an endless parade of selfies and meticulously arranged smoothie bowls." Your profound musings on the human spirit would likely have been accompanied by hashtags like #nobleforliterature and #nobleleurate , lost within endless selfies and smoothie bowls.
Can you picture it?
You, in your flowing robes, trying to get the perfect angle for a poetic selfie, only to have your train of thought derailed by an urgent notification about a viral TikTok dance challenge. Instead of exploring the nuances of existence, you’d be learning choreography to boost your follower count.
“Likes” would replace genuine admiration, and your once-stirring verses would compete with cute cats and epic fails.
Alas, the times have changed, and I find myself writing to you, not with reverence (for that is far too outdated a concept), but with a heart full of sarcasm and a mind eager to discuss the dire state of literature.
After all, who reads anymore?
Books have become nothing more than decorative pieces in the backdrop of Zoom calls, online pdf's, YouTube summary, and audiobook podcasts — mere props for intellectual posturing. You were fortunate enough to live in a time when people read for enlightenment. Today, we read captions that barely skim the surface of thought, often punctuated by emojis that convey more than entire sentences.
Poetry, as it stands, has devolved into the art of rhyming “love” with “above,” while profound metaphors are reserved for the kind of greeting cards that people toss aside after a brief chuckle.
Imagine your exquisite verses being distilled into an Instagram story, complete with a filter that makes everything look more profound than it truly is.
What would you say?
“Here’s my existential crisis, but make it aesthetic”?
Remember how you wrote "Gitanjali", a harmony of reflections on the divine and human suffering?
Now, let’s consider what would happen if you attempted to pitch that masterpiece to a modern publisher. “Too niche,” they’d say, tapping away on their laptops. “Can we add a vampire love triangle or perhaps a dystopian twist?”
They might suggest a side character who’s a werewolf for added drama, while your work would be relegated to a subsection of a subsection on a discount e-book platform, nestled somewhere between self-help guides and novels that should never have seen the light of day.
Oh, how the mighty have fallen!
You once shared the depths of your soul with the world, and now I imagine you would be arguing with a social media manager about the optimal time to post your verses for maximum engagement.
“Should I schedule it for 3 PM on a Wednesday, or is that too late in the week for existential dread?”
But fear not, my dear Tagore, for I, too, am a poet. My version of success has been redefined; it now consists of amassing a few followers who like my verses on Instagram. Instead of striving to connect with the cosmos, we’ve shifted our focus to ensuring our lines resonate with an algorithm, hoping to hit that elusive sweet spot that will make our words trend.
As I scroll through feeds filled with thoughts that could be whispered in a crowded room, I can't help but feel a mixture of despair and dark humor. The future of poetry shines brightly, as bright as the blue light emitted from the screens on which it is being mindlessly scrolled past. Who needs the mystique of moonlit nights when we can have the thrill of watching a 15-second clip of someone dubbing a funny clip of politicians while sipping overpriced coffee?
Yet, I still cling to the belief that, buried somewhere beneath the layers of hashtags and trending topics, there is a yearning for the kind of depth you championed. Perhaps the essence of poetry hasn’t entirely vanished; it’s just waiting to be rediscovered, camouflaged within the noise of the digital age. But, until that moment arrives, I remain here, pen in hand, crafting verses that echo into the void, hoping someone, somewhere, will pause in their scrolling to ponder the profound over the pedestrian.
Yours in complete and utter despair for the fate of literature.
Yours truly
~Aadil Ghulam Bhat
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