Crime and punishment
One has to follow the other if our cities are to be made any safer
By now, nobody disputes that Delhi is seriously unsafe for women. But I never quite realised just how dire the situation was until a recent incident that occurred a little too close to home for comfort.
This is how it unfolded. My cousin (lucky thing!) lives in a sprawling bungalow in a rather tony area of Delhi. Once her kids grew up and flew the coop, she rented out the first floor of her house to a few young women. All seemed to be going well for a while. My cousin was secure in the fact that there were no strange (in every sense of the word) men on the premises. The girls were happy about living above a family which had a dog prowling the grounds and a guard stationed outside the gate, which in any case was securely locked at all times.
But a week ago, my cousin woke up to loud screams emanating from the first floor. She roused her husband and the servants – thinking there would be safety in numbers – and they rushed up to the first floor. Utter confusion raged. There were two men who had broken in and had chased the terrified girls out to the terrace. One of them had gotten hold of one of the girls by the arm and was trying to drag her into a room. She was screaming for her life.
The moment they saw more people rushing in the front door, the intruders abandoned their purpose, made for the spiral staircase on the side of the terrace and ran down. By the time their pursuers caught up with them, they were long gone.
The guards on the outside road swore that no one had run past them. That left just one possibility. The intruders had climbed over the boundary wall of one of the adjoining bungalows. By then, my cousin had a pretty good idea who these men were. They worked in the bungalow next door. She asked the girls who had been attacked if they could identify them. Yes, they said, they would be able to pick them out with no difficulty at all.
So, my cousin and her husband set off the next day to file a complaint at the local police station. They were told to go home and wait and the police would come and investigate. One day came and went. Then another day passed. Finally, the cops arrived, and asked to see the girls who had been attacked. They asked them if they could recognise their attackers. Yes, said the girls, in fact they had seen them in the neighbourhood even after the incident.
Okay, said the cops, don’t worry. We will pick up these guys and teach them a lesson. And we can guarantee you that they will not bother you again.
But, they asked the girls in tones of faux concern, did they really want to file a case? Did they even understand what it entailed? They would have to go to jail to identify these men. They would have to attend court hearings to give evidence. And God knows how long the case could drag on. It could be years and years. Did they really want to get involved in all this ‘jhamela’?
What do you think these traumatised, terrified victims did? Yes, you’re right. They listened to the cops sketching out this nightmarish scenario with sinking hearts and decided not to file a case.
So, these miscreants got off scot-free.
Now, what do you suppose will happen next? Will these men be chastened after the beating that will undoubtedly be delivered at the police station? Will they decide to give up on criminality and turn into model citizens? Will they now treat women with respect rather than as potential rape victims?
Somehow, I think not.
Instead, they are going to become even more emboldened, secure in the belief that no matter what the provocation, the consequence will never be more than a thorough beating – and that’s only if they ever caught and identified. The next time they go trawling for victims, they will choose some vulnerable girl who is not so well protected, and inflict much worse damage on her. And the odds are that they will get away with it yet again.
The recent Dhaula Kuan rape of a BPO employee is a case in point. All the men who have been arrested are petty criminals who have been breaking the law for years with impunity. And after starting out with minor offences like stealing cattle they have escalated to the point where they turned rapists.
That is why I think there is a lesson to be learnt from what happened one night in my cousin’s house. Allow these miscreants to get away once and they will offend again and again. And every new crime will be more serious than the one that went before.
Perhaps it is time the Delhi Police paid attention to the `Broken Window’ policy that was adopted by the New York Police many decades ago. According to this theory, you can’t ignore even something as minor as a broken window. You must repair it and crack down on the vandals who break it. You need to make it clear that no matter how petty a crime, it will lead to punishment. That is the only way to deter people from breaking the law.
If only that same lesson was reinforced in our own metros, we would all breathe a little easier.
About Me
- Seema Goswami
- Journalist, Author, Columnist. My Twitter handle: @seemagoswami
Sunday, December 26, 2010
Sunday, December 19, 2010
The claws are out
There’s never been much love lost between Hindi film heroines; but what’s with all the recent public sniping?
Older readers will probably remember a more innocent time when film magazines carried reverential articles about the leading stars of the day, when those who were in a relationship were described as ‘very good friends’, and every heroine felt compelled to express her utmost respect for her female colleagues even though what she really wanted was to claw their eyes out.
Well, guess what? That’s exactly what the ladies are doing these days – albeit metaphorically, for the time being at least. For now, their weapon of choice is their tongue and boy, do they hand out a lashing with a rare relish!
Nor are their frank opinions expressed within the privacy of their own drawing rooms. Au contraire, they are aired on their TV channels of choice as they act all naughty and playful on the talk show of the day. The barbs are dressed up with giggles and chuckles but they are sharp and well-directed for all that. And they are trading them as if there is no tomorrow.
Playing a starring role in these cat fights is Deepika Padukone, ex-girlfriend of Ranbir Kapoor and current squeeze of Siddharth (son of Vijay) Mallya. Asked what product her former boyfriend should endorse, Deepika was quick to respond. “Condoms!” she replied, with perfect aplomb. Questioned about Katrina Kaif – with whom Ranbir is said to be ‘very good friends’ (see above) – she said she would like to see her passport. Apparently, this was a reference to the rumour that there is some dispute about Katrina’s nationality and thus, her work status in India. (And no, I hadn’t a clue about this either.)
But Deepika is just the first among equals in this bitching fest, for want of a more polite term. Kareena Kapoor and Priyanka Chopra, who began as good friends (or so they claimed at the time) now never tire of sniping at one another. Evidently, it’s all down to the fact that Priyanka began dating Shahid after Kareena dumped him for Saif Ali Khan. Priyanka and Shahid are apparently no longer together (do try and keep up!) but the ladies are still sniping away at each other.
Kareena was first off the block, asking Priyanka where she had gotten her accent from. Priyanka, who has been educated abroad, retorted with a tart: “The same place her boyfriend got his”. Then Priyanka was asked that if she could steal something off the computer of a long list of people (including Senior Bachchan and other Hindi film stalwarts) what would she steal? When it came to Kareena, Priyanka asked with faux-innocence: “Does she even have a computer?”
Oooh, you could just see the (Hermes, of course) handbags being drawn at dawn.
For some reason, most of this sniping and bitching happens on Karan Johar’s talk show. Suddenly in the midst of a somewhat happy-clappy atmosphere where everyone is laughing and teasing one another, you get a zinger like the ones quoted above. And above the sound of a million gasps across the nation you can hear Karan chuckle happily as he thinks of the headlines this little one-liner will elicit for the next few weeks.
Okay, so can I understand why Johar is happy for the occasional barb to be levelled across the parapet of the Koffee with Karan (honestly, what is with all this ‘K’ stuff? Doesn’t anyone know how to spell any longer?) show because that can only be good for his ratings. The more outrageous the stars get on the show, the more people are likely to tune in to get their weekly fix of cheap thrills.
But why do the stars fall in line so readily? Why are they so willing to say unkind things about one another on national television? Why are they so ready to be flip and bitchy about their colleagues? Why do they get so darn nasty with so little provocation?
Okay, Karan does tend to needle them a bit. But then, that’s his job as an anchor, to stir things up, to push the envelope, to make people say things that they otherwise would not. After all, his brief is to make the show as interesting as he possibly can. And quips like these go down swimmingly with the audience at home.
But my question is this: why do the stars fall for it? Why is it that in episode after episode, they all stumble into the same trap of slagging off their colleagues?
Is it that they are so comfortable with Karan – with whom all of them have done a movie or two and, no doubt, partied late into the night for good measure – that they forget that there is an actual audience out there watching and listening? Do they get conned into feeling that they are just among friends, joshing and joking, and that nothing they say will be taken seriously?
There may well be something to that because once the shock-horror reactions start pouring in, all the stars express outrage that what they said in good humour is being taken amiss. But, if you ask me, all this public sniping just makes me long for the good old days when stars concentrated on their pancake rather than their put-downs.
Call me quaint (and I’m sure you will) but I still prefer old-fashioned good manners over this new-fangled bitchiness.
There’s never been much love lost between Hindi film heroines; but what’s with all the recent public sniping?
Older readers will probably remember a more innocent time when film magazines carried reverential articles about the leading stars of the day, when those who were in a relationship were described as ‘very good friends’, and every heroine felt compelled to express her utmost respect for her female colleagues even though what she really wanted was to claw their eyes out.
Well, guess what? That’s exactly what the ladies are doing these days – albeit metaphorically, for the time being at least. For now, their weapon of choice is their tongue and boy, do they hand out a lashing with a rare relish!
Nor are their frank opinions expressed within the privacy of their own drawing rooms. Au contraire, they are aired on their TV channels of choice as they act all naughty and playful on the talk show of the day. The barbs are dressed up with giggles and chuckles but they are sharp and well-directed for all that. And they are trading them as if there is no tomorrow.
Playing a starring role in these cat fights is Deepika Padukone, ex-girlfriend of Ranbir Kapoor and current squeeze of Siddharth (son of Vijay) Mallya. Asked what product her former boyfriend should endorse, Deepika was quick to respond. “Condoms!” she replied, with perfect aplomb. Questioned about Katrina Kaif – with whom Ranbir is said to be ‘very good friends’ (see above) – she said she would like to see her passport. Apparently, this was a reference to the rumour that there is some dispute about Katrina’s nationality and thus, her work status in India. (And no, I hadn’t a clue about this either.)
But Deepika is just the first among equals in this bitching fest, for want of a more polite term. Kareena Kapoor and Priyanka Chopra, who began as good friends (or so they claimed at the time) now never tire of sniping at one another. Evidently, it’s all down to the fact that Priyanka began dating Shahid after Kareena dumped him for Saif Ali Khan. Priyanka and Shahid are apparently no longer together (do try and keep up!) but the ladies are still sniping away at each other.
Kareena was first off the block, asking Priyanka where she had gotten her accent from. Priyanka, who has been educated abroad, retorted with a tart: “The same place her boyfriend got his”. Then Priyanka was asked that if she could steal something off the computer of a long list of people (including Senior Bachchan and other Hindi film stalwarts) what would she steal? When it came to Kareena, Priyanka asked with faux-innocence: “Does she even have a computer?”
Oooh, you could just see the (Hermes, of course) handbags being drawn at dawn.
For some reason, most of this sniping and bitching happens on Karan Johar’s talk show. Suddenly in the midst of a somewhat happy-clappy atmosphere where everyone is laughing and teasing one another, you get a zinger like the ones quoted above. And above the sound of a million gasps across the nation you can hear Karan chuckle happily as he thinks of the headlines this little one-liner will elicit for the next few weeks.
Okay, so can I understand why Johar is happy for the occasional barb to be levelled across the parapet of the Koffee with Karan (honestly, what is with all this ‘K’ stuff? Doesn’t anyone know how to spell any longer?) show because that can only be good for his ratings. The more outrageous the stars get on the show, the more people are likely to tune in to get their weekly fix of cheap thrills.
But why do the stars fall in line so readily? Why are they so willing to say unkind things about one another on national television? Why are they so ready to be flip and bitchy about their colleagues? Why do they get so darn nasty with so little provocation?
Okay, Karan does tend to needle them a bit. But then, that’s his job as an anchor, to stir things up, to push the envelope, to make people say things that they otherwise would not. After all, his brief is to make the show as interesting as he possibly can. And quips like these go down swimmingly with the audience at home.
But my question is this: why do the stars fall for it? Why is it that in episode after episode, they all stumble into the same trap of slagging off their colleagues?
Is it that they are so comfortable with Karan – with whom all of them have done a movie or two and, no doubt, partied late into the night for good measure – that they forget that there is an actual audience out there watching and listening? Do they get conned into feeling that they are just among friends, joshing and joking, and that nothing they say will be taken seriously?
There may well be something to that because once the shock-horror reactions start pouring in, all the stars express outrage that what they said in good humour is being taken amiss. But, if you ask me, all this public sniping just makes me long for the good old days when stars concentrated on their pancake rather than their put-downs.
Call me quaint (and I’m sure you will) but I still prefer old-fashioned good manners over this new-fangled bitchiness.
Saturday, December 18, 2010
Crime and punishment
One has to follow the other if our cities are to be made any safer
By now, nobody disputes that Delhi is seriously unsafe for women. But I never quite realised just how dire the situation was until a recent incident that occurred a little too close to home for comfort.
This is how it unfolded. My cousin (lucky thing!) lives in a sprawling bungalow in a rather tony area of Delhi. Once her kids grew up and flew the coop, she rented out the first floor of her house to a few young women. All seemed to be going well for a while. My cousin was secure in the fact that there were no strange (in every sense of the word) men on the premises. The girls were happy about living above a family which had a dog prowling the grounds and a guard stationed outside the gate, which in any case was securely locked at all times.
But a week ago, my cousin woke up to loud screams emanating from the first floor. She roused her husband and the servants – thinking there would be safety in numbers – and they rushed up to the first floor. Utter confusion raged. There were two men who had broken in and had chased the terrified girls out to the terrace. One of them had gotten hold of one of the girls by the arm and was trying to drag her into a room. She was screaming for her life.
The moment they saw more people rushing in the front door, the intruders abandoned their purpose, made for the spiral staircase on the side of the terrace and ran down. By the time their pursuers caught up with them, they were long gone.
The guards on the outside road swore that no one had run past them. That left just one possibility. The intruders had climbed over the boundary wall of one of the adjoining bungalows. By then, my cousin had a pretty good idea who these men were. They worked in the bungalow next door. She asked the girls who had been attacked if they could identify them. Yes, they said, they would be able to pick them out with no difficulty at all.
So, my cousin and her husband set off the next day to file a complaint at the local police station. They were told to go home and wait and the police would come and investigate. One day came and went. Then another day passed. Finally, the cops arrived, and asked to see the girls who had been attacked. They asked them if they could recognise their attackers. Yes, said the girls, in fact they had seen them in the neighbourhood even after the incident.
Okay, said the cops, don’t worry. We will pick up these guys and teach them a lesson. And we can guarantee you that they will not bother you again.
But, they asked the girls in tones of faux concern, did they really want to file a case? Did they even understand what it entailed? They would have to go to jail to identify these men. They would have to attend court hearings to give evidence. And God knows how long the case could drag on. It could be years and years. Did they really want to get involved in all this ‘jhamela’?
What do you think these traumatised, terrified victims did? Yes, you’re right. They listened to the cops sketching out this nightmarish scenario with sinking hearts and decided not to file a case.
So, these miscreants got off scot-free.
Now, what do you suppose will happen next? Will these men be chastened after the beating that will undoubtedly be delivered at the police station? Will they decide to give up on criminality and turn into model citizens? Will they now treat women with respect rather than as potential rape victims?
Somehow, I think not.
Instead, they are going to become even more emboldened, secure in the belief that no matter what the provocation, the consequence will never be more than a thorough beating – and that’s only if they ever caught and identified. The next time they go trawling for victims, they will choose some vulnerable girl who is not so well protected, and inflict much worse damage on her. And the odds are that they will get away with it yet again.
The recent Dhaula Kuan rape of a BPO employee is a case in point. All the men who have been arrested are petty criminals who have been breaking the law for years with impunity. And after starting out with minor offences like stealing cattle they have escalated to the point where they turned rapists.
That is why I think there is a lesson to be learnt from what happened one night in my cousin’s house. Allow these miscreants to get away once and they will offend again and again. And every new crime will be more serious than the one that went before.
Perhaps it is time the Delhi Police paid attention to the `Broken Window’ policy that was adopted by the New York Police many decades ago. According to this theory, you can’t ignore even something as minor as a broken window. You must repair it and crack down on the vandals who break it. You need to make it clear that no matter how petty a crime, it will lead to punishment. That is the only way to deter people from breaking the law.
If only that same lesson was reinforced in our own metros, we would all breathe a little easier.
One has to follow the other if our cities are to be made any safer
By now, nobody disputes that Delhi is seriously unsafe for women. But I never quite realised just how dire the situation was until a recent incident that occurred a little too close to home for comfort.
This is how it unfolded. My cousin (lucky thing!) lives in a sprawling bungalow in a rather tony area of Delhi. Once her kids grew up and flew the coop, she rented out the first floor of her house to a few young women. All seemed to be going well for a while. My cousin was secure in the fact that there were no strange (in every sense of the word) men on the premises. The girls were happy about living above a family which had a dog prowling the grounds and a guard stationed outside the gate, which in any case was securely locked at all times.
But a week ago, my cousin woke up to loud screams emanating from the first floor. She roused her husband and the servants – thinking there would be safety in numbers – and they rushed up to the first floor. Utter confusion raged. There were two men who had broken in and had chased the terrified girls out to the terrace. One of them had gotten hold of one of the girls by the arm and was trying to drag her into a room. She was screaming for her life.
The moment they saw more people rushing in the front door, the intruders abandoned their purpose, made for the spiral staircase on the side of the terrace and ran down. By the time their pursuers caught up with them, they were long gone.
The guards on the outside road swore that no one had run past them. That left just one possibility. The intruders had climbed over the boundary wall of one of the adjoining bungalows. By then, my cousin had a pretty good idea who these men were. They worked in the bungalow next door. She asked the girls who had been attacked if they could identify them. Yes, they said, they would be able to pick them out with no difficulty at all.
So, my cousin and her husband set off the next day to file a complaint at the local police station. They were told to go home and wait and the police would come and investigate. One day came and went. Then another day passed. Finally, the cops arrived, and asked to see the girls who had been attacked. They asked them if they could recognise their attackers. Yes, said the girls, in fact they had seen them in the neighbourhood even after the incident.
Okay, said the cops, don’t worry. We will pick up these guys and teach them a lesson. And we can guarantee you that they will not bother you again.
But, they asked the girls in tones of faux concern, did they really want to file a case? Did they even understand what it entailed? They would have to go to jail to identify these men. They would have to attend court hearings to give evidence. And God knows how long the case could drag on. It could be years and years. Did they really want to get involved in all this ‘jhamela’?
What do you think these traumatised, terrified victims did? Yes, you’re right. They listened to the cops sketching out this nightmarish scenario with sinking hearts and decided not to file a case.
So, these miscreants got off scot-free.
Now, what do you suppose will happen next? Will these men be chastened after the beating that will undoubtedly be delivered at the police station? Will they decide to give up on criminality and turn into model citizens? Will they now treat women with respect rather than as potential rape victims?
Somehow, I think not.
Instead, they are going to become even more emboldened, secure in the belief that no matter what the provocation, the consequence will never be more than a thorough beating – and that’s only if they ever caught and identified. The next time they go trawling for victims, they will choose some vulnerable girl who is not so well protected, and inflict much worse damage on her. And the odds are that they will get away with it yet again.
The recent Dhaula Kuan rape of a BPO employee is a case in point. All the men who have been arrested are petty criminals who have been breaking the law for years with impunity. And after starting out with minor offences like stealing cattle they have escalated to the point where they turned rapists.
That is why I think there is a lesson to be learnt from what happened one night in my cousin’s house. Allow these miscreants to get away once and they will offend again and again. And every new crime will be more serious than the one that went before.
Perhaps it is time the Delhi Police paid attention to the `Broken Window’ policy that was adopted by the New York Police many decades ago. According to this theory, you can’t ignore even something as minor as a broken window. You must repair it and crack down on the vandals who break it. You need to make it clear that no matter how petty a crime, it will lead to punishment. That is the only way to deter people from breaking the law.
If only that same lesson was reinforced in our own metros, we would all breathe a little easier.
Attention, please!
When there are so many distractions available at the click of a mouse, can you stop your mind from wandering?
Over the last few months, I have been trying to work on a new book, a racy thriller that I hope will turn out to be a page-turner (not to mention, a bestseller!). But the operative word in the last sentence is: ‘trying’. Yes, that’s right. I am trying – very hard indeed – to write a book. But I’m sorry to report, I am not getting very far.
And it’s all the fault of that scourge of our times: the Internet.
No, seriously, if it wasn’t for the distractions available at the click of a mouse, I would be half-way through my opus by now. I have written the first chapter, which is always the trickiest. I have the plot more or less worked out. I have plenty of thoughts on the twists and turns I could throw in to surprise the reader. I have the gleamings of a cracker of a climax in my head. And by now, I know my main characters almost as well as I do some of my best friends.
And yet, the writing is not going very well.
Of course I carry some blame for that, for being an undisciplined so-and-so who can’t keep to her self-imposed deadline of at least 500 words a day. But truth be told, most of the blame rests on my laptop, which is connected to my wifi network, and keeps throwing up interesting little nuggets when I am trying to work.
Suddenly an icon pops up telling me that a friend wants to chat on Gmail. Now, if she were to call me on the phone at that juncture I would probably not even notice (my mobile is nearly always on silent) let alone take her call. But there is no ignoring her on my laptop. The icon blinks on and on and I can’t keep my eyes off it.
Finally the temptation gets too hard to resist. Who knows what choice piece of information she may have to offer? What if she needs to discuss something urgent? The questions whirl around in my head until I concede defeat, close my word document, and press ‘Yes’ on that icon.
Of course, nine times out of ten she is just looking for a good gossip in the middle of the workday. And by the time the two of us have finished instant messaging the news of the week, a good half hour has passed. And so has the mood to work on my novel.
If it isn’t instant messaging on Gmail, it’s Facebook alerts that pop up to provide instant distraction. Yet another friend has a ‘Recent Status Update’ that he would like to share with me. Another has sent a private message with such an intriguing tagline that it is impossible to ignore. And then, there’s that link to a piece in the Guardian. Would it really be so bad to have a quick read before I resume work?
Of course, it would. Because when it comes to surfing the newspapers, there really is no end to it as far as I am concerned. I click on a link about Obama’s state visit to India, get distracted by a strap line that talks about the forthcoming royal wedding between Prince William and Kate Middleton (or Catherine, as we are all apparently now meant to call her). From there it’s one easy click to an article about Princess Diana and how she may well overshadow her daughter-in-law even from the great beyond. And so it goes, until all thoughts of my book have been chased from my head, which is now filled with conspiracy theories about the Princess’ death in a car crash.
And then, there’s my new toy: Twitter. No, I don’t really tweet that much, mostly because I have nothing to say. But I do get a tad curious if I get an alert about someone having tweeted to me. I sign in to check what that’s about, quickly type out my replies, and then get waylaid by what everyone else is twittering on about. It’s not long before I have been inveigled into a conversation or two with my Twitter friends, or, as is more likely, have gotten into an argument that takes up so much of my mind space that there’s no longer any room for novel-writing in it.
I guess this is an unavoidable fall-out of the Age of Information that we live in, surrounded by so many social media networks that we find ourselves quite lost in all that babble. And given this constant flitting between different things, it’s no wonder that our attention spans are shot to hell.
Well, at least I know that mine is. With all this instant messaging, twittering, Googling and what have you, I find it harder and harder to concentrate on any one subject. In fact, given the level of my distraction, it’s a wonder how I manage to get any work done at all.
Which is why I’m making a resolution even before the New Year rolls in. From now on, I am going to restrict my use of the Internet to two hours a day, judiciously spaced out over a 24-hour period. Who knows, with a bit of luck, I may even get down to finishing that book.
(Full disclosure: in the course of writing this column, I logged on to Twitter, answered a couple of emails, and did a quick Internet search for Kate Middleton and Princess Diana.)
When there are so many distractions available at the click of a mouse, can you stop your mind from wandering?
Over the last few months, I have been trying to work on a new book, a racy thriller that I hope will turn out to be a page-turner (not to mention, a bestseller!). But the operative word in the last sentence is: ‘trying’. Yes, that’s right. I am trying – very hard indeed – to write a book. But I’m sorry to report, I am not getting very far.
And it’s all the fault of that scourge of our times: the Internet.
No, seriously, if it wasn’t for the distractions available at the click of a mouse, I would be half-way through my opus by now. I have written the first chapter, which is always the trickiest. I have the plot more or less worked out. I have plenty of thoughts on the twists and turns I could throw in to surprise the reader. I have the gleamings of a cracker of a climax in my head. And by now, I know my main characters almost as well as I do some of my best friends.
And yet, the writing is not going very well.
Of course I carry some blame for that, for being an undisciplined so-and-so who can’t keep to her self-imposed deadline of at least 500 words a day. But truth be told, most of the blame rests on my laptop, which is connected to my wifi network, and keeps throwing up interesting little nuggets when I am trying to work.
Suddenly an icon pops up telling me that a friend wants to chat on Gmail. Now, if she were to call me on the phone at that juncture I would probably not even notice (my mobile is nearly always on silent) let alone take her call. But there is no ignoring her on my laptop. The icon blinks on and on and I can’t keep my eyes off it.
Finally the temptation gets too hard to resist. Who knows what choice piece of information she may have to offer? What if she needs to discuss something urgent? The questions whirl around in my head until I concede defeat, close my word document, and press ‘Yes’ on that icon.
Of course, nine times out of ten she is just looking for a good gossip in the middle of the workday. And by the time the two of us have finished instant messaging the news of the week, a good half hour has passed. And so has the mood to work on my novel.
If it isn’t instant messaging on Gmail, it’s Facebook alerts that pop up to provide instant distraction. Yet another friend has a ‘Recent Status Update’ that he would like to share with me. Another has sent a private message with such an intriguing tagline that it is impossible to ignore. And then, there’s that link to a piece in the Guardian. Would it really be so bad to have a quick read before I resume work?
Of course, it would. Because when it comes to surfing the newspapers, there really is no end to it as far as I am concerned. I click on a link about Obama’s state visit to India, get distracted by a strap line that talks about the forthcoming royal wedding between Prince William and Kate Middleton (or Catherine, as we are all apparently now meant to call her). From there it’s one easy click to an article about Princess Diana and how she may well overshadow her daughter-in-law even from the great beyond. And so it goes, until all thoughts of my book have been chased from my head, which is now filled with conspiracy theories about the Princess’ death in a car crash.
And then, there’s my new toy: Twitter. No, I don’t really tweet that much, mostly because I have nothing to say. But I do get a tad curious if I get an alert about someone having tweeted to me. I sign in to check what that’s about, quickly type out my replies, and then get waylaid by what everyone else is twittering on about. It’s not long before I have been inveigled into a conversation or two with my Twitter friends, or, as is more likely, have gotten into an argument that takes up so much of my mind space that there’s no longer any room for novel-writing in it.
I guess this is an unavoidable fall-out of the Age of Information that we live in, surrounded by so many social media networks that we find ourselves quite lost in all that babble. And given this constant flitting between different things, it’s no wonder that our attention spans are shot to hell.
Well, at least I know that mine is. With all this instant messaging, twittering, Googling and what have you, I find it harder and harder to concentrate on any one subject. In fact, given the level of my distraction, it’s a wonder how I manage to get any work done at all.
Which is why I’m making a resolution even before the New Year rolls in. From now on, I am going to restrict my use of the Internet to two hours a day, judiciously spaced out over a 24-hour period. Who knows, with a bit of luck, I may even get down to finishing that book.
(Full disclosure: in the course of writing this column, I logged on to Twitter, answered a couple of emails, and did a quick Internet search for Kate Middleton and Princess Diana.)
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