A friend, P take a bow, introduced me to Twitter some months ago. It was an introduction that was long overdue. For one, I had already joined twitter a couple of years ago but hadnt really figured out how one was supposed to get addicted to it, therefore my updates seemed to be sporadic afterthoughts of registering my presence there, rather in the manner of somnabulistic student on the last row of college lecture hall, raising hand and voice to announce attendance but not interest. Therefore, I was but a sleeping member of the twitterati. Until the trip to pahadland in May, which left me with nothing to occupy myself on the long drives from one destination to the next, and with Avomine thankfully rendering the child deep in the throes of sleep, I had itchy fingers and nothing to do with them. And there’s only so much of coniferous landscape you can take after a while, therefore when Uber Twitter was suggested to me, I jumped at it, rather downloaded it instantly. And began tweeting about my journey. It was fun. I must admit. For someone who no one listens to in the real world, I actually had folks out there who thought me worthy of listening to and responding to. It was an ego boost. I became infuriatingly opinionated, also because in real life I am a total mouse, and will never tell a soul when I am offended by something, but rather will just withdraw myself from the person and the situation. Here I got into no holds drawn scraps. If I could translate this into the real world I would be a kickass Charlie’s Angel, and dont think the spouse would quite appreciate that.
Anyway, to come back to twitter, it is a fun place. A place where I can get my finger on the pulse of what is happening right now, before the newspapers tell me. Where wonderful people are online at anytime, including the 3 am, wide eyed, I Cant Sleep For Counting Sheep moment when the only sounds are the snores of the spouse and the child, and neither of whom are interested in deep soul searching conversation about whether I should get a hair cut or let the hair go the way of wolf women.
Twitter also allows me to comment directly to folk I had a chance in hell of ever interacting with the real world. Come on, you think Diego Forlan would ever know that a Kiran Manral sitting in Mumbai swooned over his curved shot to the goal! Not that he needs to reply to my besotted tweets, but he might just read them, wont he? That’s good enough for me.
And there are the opinion makers. The senior journalists, the film makers, the Bollywood actors. I can tell them all what I really think and they cant set their bodyguards after me to rend me from limb to limb. Imagine how intoxicated I must feel with all this power. Me, little old me, who couldnt even dare tell the spouse that his shoulder length rebonded hair totally freaked me out even when he thought he was looking the next best thing since sliced bread. (Thankfully, the phase has passed, and I offer a coconut to every diety in the pantheon in gratitude).
And of course, I get the random desperate souls who are keen to strike up a meaningful relationship based on my DP which is close on four years old now and completely non representative of current appearance, which is closer to bloated whale proportions. I keep it on for vanity sake. When I’m a grizzled 90 year old I will still keep the same DP, and refuse to get myself photographed.
Has Twitter changed my life? Definitely not. Do I take it seriously? Of course I do. As seriously as I take my daily diet and exercise routine (speaking of which no walks have happened since the monsoon began and fat deposits are making me positively blimplike).
What about you? Are you part of the twitterati? And if you are, who are your favourite tweeters, and yes, you have to include my name on pain of me sulking.