It is the image that defines the age. For centuries it has been the woman with a red rose; now it is a woman with a mobile phone. Social media has become the rage. It is all pervasive, taking up most of the waking hours of the people, especially young. And the waking hours are not confined to the traditional division of nights and days but whenever you chose to sleep, doze off or are between waking and sleeping. The work and rest are now conjoined.

And what about me who does carry a mobile that belongs to the ancient world, the first few generations, now seemingly prehistoric, and does not respond to any social media access. The hardware does not harbour the software that welcomes social media to deconstruct the boundaries of rest and work, gossip and news, opinion and facts.

So I am informed when I tread into a group of the hottest sensations, the image that has gone viral and the phrase that has set the socialites on fire. The engagement is amazing and it takes up the attention that otherwise should be focused on the work in hand, as understood in conventional terms.

There is the compulsion to write back instantly, to add a comment, to like, to share, to tweet and to be done with it immediately; otherwise the fear stalks of being left out. It is the same fear of non-conformity that has bogged down most in the previous generation -- it is galling not to be seen at the right place and at the right time. Everyone has an opinion on what has flashed on the screen -- it has to be expressed, no matter what, whether it strikes any chord of personal or issue-related relevance.

Messaging has become the mode of communicating other than the mobile call and my device just misses out on most of the SMSs and then I am held responsible for being unresponsive or rude or indifferent to messaging, all cardinal sins in the prevalent sphere of social interaction. Apps I cannot receive and find myself always out of the loop.

Texting is rare and an ordeal, while sexting no more than a regret of it happening now, so late, in the twilight haze. Terms like Tinder, Instagram, Snapchat make me wonder about the etymology and the way phrases are coined rather than the actual fact of what they mean and refer to. Tweeter was what the birds tweeted and not a small snappy message compressed by intention. It does not carry the music of a songbird.

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There may be a positive side of this antediluvian approach. I have missed out so much that there is fear of becoming irrelevant. But then there is the consolation that it was not actually the lack of talent or the ability to seek an opportunity or the genius to cash in on an opening but really the inability to be active socially. Had I got to know of something immediately, I could have seized the occasion or the opportunity because I was the most qualified and did not get to know of it in time.

Spare the bounty hunters and gold-diggers, I am not in the pack and the self-image thus has stayed untarnished. If anything, in social media and rat race, the smart alec syndrome has to be ridiculed, looked down upon and so derived holier than thou satisfaction from.

It has also saved me from being obsessive about myself and my image. The selfie craze has thus eluded me and the glorification and the shame associated with it. There is no immediate rush of blood to the brain that the moment has to be captured with me being at the centre of it all.

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This selfie craze has adversely affected head of states that turn solemn occasions into one of self-admiration for their own physiognomy. Mandela’s funeral was made as an occasion to be seen there rather than pay respect to one of the greatest men born in the last hundred years. I have also learnt to enjoy the moment more than to record the moment for others to share. It is absurd. If I go to a music concert or to a play it is to see, hear, and experience and not to become a photographer or a camera man. All the fun is sacrificed for the purposes of recording the show because then it can be beamed across the world to enhance my social and cultural profile.

My friends and those I do not know but are my potential viewers or sharers or likers will admire me, be envious of me for being a culture vulture but I will be poorer for becoming the object of own vanity. The object has become the subject when I should have been a spectator or part of the audience enjoying a piece of music. I become a recorder of events thus making an implied effort at being creative. This has turned me into a performer all the time rather than one that is a spectator of a performance.