How the Internet gave me more lasting friendships than real life

If memory serves me right, it was circa 1990 when I first bought a personal computer (PC). It was a Daewoo make, bought in instalments from Al Yousaf’s stall at the Gulf Information Technology Exhibition (or Gitex), which started in 1981 at Dubai’s World Trade Centre. Bill Gates’s Microsoft Windows was still in its nascent stage, and my Korean buy was run on the operating system called MS-DOS, introduced in 1981.

It was probably the first PC bought by a Khaleej Times employee, so friends and colleagues streamed into my Karama home to see how I played chess with the machine and wrote graphic programs to fire rockets on the grainy convex screen.

When the UAE rolled out commercial Internet services in 1995, I quickly upgraded to a new computer run on Microsoft’s Windows 95 that had features like the Start Menu, the Taskbar and the file manager application called Windows Explorer.

It was then I got my personal email and web portal registered — services that have stayed with me till date. My multi-page webpage was designed by none other than yours truly with the help of AOL and Photoshop. All this was done in the hope that I could launch a computer-literate wifey to a better paying job that wasn’t teaching. My PC stood up to my ambition but wifey didn’t. The dream of making an Indra Nooyi in Dubai was nipped in the bud.

Besides, Gates broke the fragile peace and harmony at home when he introduced us to  ‘private chat rooms’, which wifey initially thought was like the notorious present-day ‘massage parlour’. On her return from school midafternoon, when  I was away in the newsroom, she would keep track of all the Katies, Carrys and Michals in my chat history.

I was then like Elon Musk or Jeff Bezos, exploring new horizons of friendship with both genders  in the online world. I learned to identify who was genuine and who wasn’t, to call out scamsters, and stay clear of any lewd material. Simultaneously, I educated my kids about the pitfalls in the realms of digital sexuality.

But when I look back at my digital journey, chatting was not as malignant as wifey thought. Some of my old online friends are still around, discussing how they cope with ageing and illnesses, manage retirement lives, handle investments, and manage tantrums. My digital friends are much more forever than the real-world ones.

And that’s in spite of the fact that I’ve met none of them. A few live as near as Karama and Jumeirah in Dubai, Al Ain in Abu Dhabi, and Kochi in India. We often talk on the phone, exchange sound bites, and even buy each other’s books. Let me mention Malaika, Rajiv, Pappan, and Bablu here.

Debates on topics as varied as breaking stories, films, politics, poetry, music, famine, and wars happen among us. Whenever the line between friendships is thought to be thinning to an invisible watermark, we are jolted back to reality. ‘Sorries’ are changed and accepted. And life goes on.

Some take breaks extending to   months — vacuums that are felt deep within and send us scurrying to check for every bit of information about the missing person. Then you breathe easy when he or she sends you gems like, “Didn’t really miss you because I kept revisiting your words”, or “Distance and silence keep us closer. Don’t they?”

They infallibly pain you, providentially provoke you, and shockingly surprise you — little memories that help when nothingness stares you in the face.

Some would knock gently yet shut the door on your face fiercely; some would gatecrash like a troop of conquering warriors yet would stay on to serenade you to peace. Some would appear on your horizon like a rainbow and leave behind an instant kaleidoscope of emotions that last a lifetime. Their departures can agonise you to death. But then, like Bablu says, they have many more hearts to warm up.

Some burst into our space like a wayward meteor, like this one who came calling the other day.

“Hi, Richard, are my travel plans ready?”

“I’m not Richard.”

“Oh my God. Maybe my cousin gave me the wrong number. I apologise for this mistake.”

“No issues. I guessed as much. Cheers.”

“Anyway, nice to meet you. My name is Elena, may I know your name?”

After a few minutes of conversation, Elena said: “Can I see you, I want to know who I am talking to.”

“Should be the other way around as you knocked on my door. Show your face first.”

After several minutes of fights I send a caricature of mine, and she sends me an image.

“Why did you send a disappearing photo?”

“Because I am a girl.”

“I don’t want to keep. Why should I?”

“Then why did you question me?”

For the rest of the night, we fought like animals until she said: “Thank you, I hope we will become good friends.”

“Time will tell. Good night,” I said. Fingers crossed.

Bablu messaged the same night. Something I never wanted — nor expected. “It was just a short time in your big little space. I am leaving like a thief with a large haul of memories. Not sure I will have time to peek back. I’m walking into a strange world out there; it’s my parents’ wish.”

Strange are the ways of our digital existence as well as fellowmen. They become everything though they are unseen nobodies. Bablu’s exit left me like an explorer that crash-landed on the far side of the Moon, with its battery draining as fast as a burning star.  

wknd@khaleejtimes.com