There was a time when the rhythm of life flowed with a natural grace, unhurried and unfragmented, when families found contentment in gathering around their elders and absorbing the wisdom of their years. Among the memorable figures of that simpler age was the maternal grandfather of my Tai Ammi, whom everyone affectionately called Mianji.
He lived to be about 108 years old, and age had done little to diminish the sharpness of his mind or the calm composure of his spirit. Whenever he came to our home, it was as though a quiet festival had arrived. All the children would instinctively gather around him, sitting on the floor near his Charpai, waiting for him to speak. We would bombard him with questions—some sensible, some utterly childish—and he would never show the slightest sign of fatigue or irritation. His patience seemed endless, his affection inexhaustible.
If we asked him the secret of his long life and robust health, he would smile, stroke his beard, and repeat the same few principles that had shaped his existence. Walk as much as you can, he would say; eat fresh and simple food; fill your plate with vegetables and fruits; rise early and sleep early; never abandon the five daily prayers; and, he would add with a hint of pride, never sleep under a fan. In those days, this last habit sounded strange even to us children, but for him it was part of a disciplined, self-controlled life. He would narrate eye-witness accounts of events from a distant past, tell instructive stories, and share what he called “the secret of success”—contentment, gratitude, honest work, and trust in Almighty Allah.
In those times, nearly every household followed a similar pattern. Elders were not merely present; they were central to the moral and emotional life of the family. Serving them was not deemed a burden but an honour. People took pains to care for their elderly parents and grandparents, to sit with them after meals, to listen to their memories and advice. Children were gently pushed to spend time with their elders, to learn from their experience, and to absorb, almost unconsciously, the etiquette of life.
Perhaps it was the absence of modern distractions, perhaps it was the habit of being content in every situation, or perhaps it was the cleanliness of the eyes and heart that comes from living closer to nature and faith. But one thing is certain; the home was more of a living, breathing institution, and less of a hotel with isolated rooms.
Then came a silent revolution in the form of mobile phones and digital devices. On the surface, it promised connectivity and convenience. In practice, it quietly rearranged the architecture of our relationships. Today, it is common to see a father, mother, son, and daughter all sitting in the same room, yet each imprisoned within the small glowing screen held in their hand. They are physically together but emotionally scattered in four different worlds. Conversations are reduced to brief interruptions between notifications. Laughter, once shared across the room, is now directed at short videos made by strangers.
We often say, “Mobile phones are a necessity of modern life,” and to some extent this is true. Yet, for many young people, the device has moved far beyond necessity and entered the realm of addiction. The idea of spending even a few hours without a phone feels unbearable. When, due to security concerns, mobile services are suspended for a day or two, life itself appears to be suspended. People panic, feel restless, and behave as though some vital organ of the body has been removed.
The tragedy is not confined to adults. It has seeped into the nursery. It is now a common sight that a child will only eat if cartoons are playing on a mobile phone. To gain a few moments of peace, mothers place a device in the small hands of their children, believing that this will give them time to manage other chores. The child sits mesmerised for hours, eyes fixed, mind numbed, and body inactive. Later, when that same child calls out, the parents often do not respond. Their own ears are occupied by earphones, their own attention captured by the same digital demon they once placed in their child’s hands.
As a nation, we appear to have been taken hostage by this tiny piece of technology. It has invaded our bedrooms, our dining tables, our mosques, our classrooms, and even our funerals. If this trend continues unchecked, the future will not merely be uncomfortable; it will be frightening and painful. We risk raising a generation that is physically present but emotionally absent, connected to the world yet detached from their own families, informed about everything yet wise about nothing.
The way forward, however, does not lie in rejecting technology altogether. That would neither be realistic nor fair. The solution lies in restoring balance and reclaiming control. Families must consciously design “phone-free zones” and “phone-free times” inside the house—such as at meals, during family gatherings, and in the hour before sleeping. Parents must recognise that the first model of behaviour for a child is not a cartoon hero on a screen, but the adults in the home. If the parent is permanently glued to the phone, any lecture about reducing screen time will ring hollow.
Schools and religious institutions can also play a vital role by educating children and parents alike about the psychological and physical harms of excessive screen use, from weakened attention span to disturbed sleep and fractured relationships. Community campaigns and media programmes should highlight stories like that of my beloved Mianji, reminding us that health, longevity, and inner peace have long been linked to movement, simplicity, moderation, spirituality, and human connection—not to endless scrolling and virtual applause.
On an individual level, each of us must ask a hard question: who is the master and who is the servant? The mobile phone was made to serve us, not to rule us. We can begin with small, firm steps. Keep the phone away while talking to parents and grandparents. Visit them without the excuse of a “missed call” or a “WhatsApp message.” Listen once again to their stories, even if we think we have heard them before. Replace one hour of mindless browsing with a quiet walk, a page of a good book, or a meaningful conversation.
If we manage to do this, perhaps we will not only protect the future of our children but also regain a precious part of our past. We may not live to be one hundred and eight like Mianji, but we can surely strive to live lives that are richer in love, calmer in spirit, and closer to the values that once made our homes true schools of character.
