A 14-year-old girl in Lalkuan (Uttarakhand) recently hit the headlines for committing suicide after her elder brother reprimanded her for excessive screen time. The headline took me instantly back to my own childhood, an era when a mobile phone belonged firmly to the realm of science fiction.
Back then, our household possessed a single black landline with a rotary dial, kept safely under lock and key in my grandfather’s office. It was a privilege, not an extension of the hand. Making an outgoing call from it required the collective permission of all the members of our joint family.
Sharing was the bedrock of our domestic existence. In our home, love was rarely served as pure dessert. It was always tempered with firm discipline. The television set was switched on strictly after 7 pm, and not beyond 10 pm. That hour marked extra study for me and my siblings, and bedtime for the younger children and elders alike.
I had my first access to a computer and a mobile phone as a working woman in my thirties. I bought the former with my savings, while the mobile handset was a gift from my elder brother. Yet, adult status did not grant immunity from household decorum. Transgressing boundaries meant being pulled up sharply, sometimes right in front of the entire household, including my toddler son in diapers. I never felt diminished by those reprimands. I felt seen. It was comforting proof that someone was invested enough to be angry.
Even today, I treat my smartphone much like a torch. You switch it on when needed, and switch it off when done. That is why I froze at the news report from Lalkuan, staring blankly at one word — scolded.
My mind drifted back to a winter afternoon in Amritsar when I was an eight-year-old. I had eaten peanuts to my heart’s content. By late evening, my stomach flared up. My mother’s response was threefold. First, a severe scolding for my lack of restraint. Second, a dose of a foul-tasting medicine mixture already prescribed by my regular doctor for tummy ache. Third, a visit to our family doctor the following morning.
The doctor warned me of administering an injection in case I repeated such waywardness in the future. To my young mind, that threat stung far worse than the bellyache itself. But as tears spilled over, my mother gently pulled my head into her lap, massaging my aching stomach with her warm palms. “Excess of everything is bad, my child. Always remember that,” she advised. I still do, even today.
Just last week, I scolded my son for bringing his phone to the dinner table. He sulked, and my heart sank for a brief moment. Yet, 10 minutes later, he came from behind and wrapped his arms around me. “Sorry, Mummy.” I hugged him back. Minutes later, we were enjoying family time over dinner together. That quiet reconciliation was the whole point.
The young girl in Lalkuan never waited for that reassuring hug. For her, a moment’s scolding became a tragic full stop rather than a corrective comma. In equipping our children with digital devices that stream endless validation, we have somehow failed to build their inner resilience against a single moment of friction from those who love them most. We need to teach them and remind ourselves that a loving rebuke is never an insult, but the ultimate proof that someone cares enough to hold us back.
(The writer is an Amritsar-based freelance journalist)