With the economic liberalization of the early '90s, we witnessed a series of booms. Ready-made goods flooded the market, electronics became accessible, and the telephone network expanded. Software and internet industries flourished, and suddenly, everything became about variety and choice. Salaries grew, and even computers—once unimaginable—entered our homes. 

The first camera I owned was a compact one, brought from the U.S. by my elder son. Later, he gifted me a small digital camera with less than 1 GB of memory. My younger son followed suit, bringing a more advanced camera with additional buttons—much to my delight! 

We eagerly took pictures, burned them onto CDs, and visited the studio for prints. However, my limited computer skills led to some mishaps. Once, I copied photos in two different formats onto a single CD. When the studio owner—our long-time acquaintance—inserted the CD, his system froze. His smile quickly turned into a scowl, though he couldn’t complain much, given our history. It took 15 minutes to fix the issue, after which he politely advised me to use rewritable CDs in the future. 

Our photo collection grew over the years, especially with grandkids entering the picture. We accumulated bulky albums, carefully arranged and labeled. As digital storage improved, we transferred files to hard drives—one exclusively for wedding photos and videos. But after a decade, these albums have become dust collectors, rarely opened. 

Recently, I handed over some old hard drives to my sons, hoping they’d sort through them. Their response? “We already have similar drives. What do we do with these?” My advice: “Eliminate duplicates and store the rest in your cloud or PC.” I know it’ll be a decade before they get around to it, but at least I’ve passed the responsibility. 

Ironically, after giving away those hard drives, I realized I needed some old poems and blog entries. So, I called my son and asked him to upload them to my Google Drive. Now I have yet another copy. 

Do I pat myself on the back—or shake my head at the nonsense I’ve indulged in? 

Contd. 354. Speaker on the Head