We weren’t this short sighted back then. India used to listen to those who saw ahead, who saw beyond the immediate foliage and the leaves to note the patterns in the roots. Those men and women are still here, pushing agendas, pulling at the weed that threatens to choke out our democracy. We don’t notice or care.
What we see and talk about is the foliage and nothing else. What is relevant is the meme, the moment. It is no wonder that a sexually deprived nation with a small-prick complex is desperate for satisfaction. That’s what Twitter, for example, gives us. Satisfaction. That lingering feeling of churning hate at the bottom of your belly can now be projectile vomited at someone. The dissent of the patriot: that weird love at the center of the Indian Experiment, can be excised with a witty comment.
This has been the curse, not just of our nation, but of every nation in this weird age. To badly paraphrase Chaplin in the The Great Dictator: "We say too much and feel too little."
We are content, on Indian Twitter, with expressing our discontent without doing anything about it. Satisfied with expressing our dissatisfaction. Befuddled and Stupefied by the intricacies of our politics, we stick to repeating our platitudes. One for the right. One for the left.