Thanks to its being a favourite pastime at the highest level in the nation it would be but natural to write a post about selfies. But that is not the motivation for my writing this post. In fact I am yet to open my account, to borrow a cricketing metaphor, in the world of clicking selfies.
This post has instead been motivated by an impromptu conversation between my friend Satya and myself about a selfie that he made this morning with me.
My friendship with Satya is of recent vintage. He makes me feel far more special, successful and bigger than I am, or I will ever be, for reasons I am unable to imagine, in spite of a deviously fertile mind. Lakshmi, my ever admiring spouse, in a moment of uncharacteristic candour told me that he remains among my small band of friends only because he pampers my ego. All of which will have to be evaluated separately.
So when Satya chose to make a selfie with the sylvan main gate at IIMB as a backdrop I demurred that we have enough pics and selfies that the marginal utility of this one would be negligible.
Selfies generally belong to the world of the sentimental heart while the idea of marginal utility is a construct that is more usually associated with the rational head. It is true that economists really don't care what the source of utility is - it could be anything from shareholder's wealth to a marauder's sense of power to the emotional fulfillment that lovers claim to derive from a moment of romance.
Speaking for myself, I can relate only to the first of the three payoffs above. But that does not mean that the cruel pleasure from inflicting pain or loss or the joy of finding love, true or otherwise, is any less real. I have never taken lives. I have never managed to consummate my longing for romance into a relationship, before or after my marriage. The only source of romance I know of is the joy of being with my wife, Lakshmi.
Satya was not very impressed with my argument against the selfie and went on to click one eventually. Long after he clicked I went back to what I sensed was his disapproval of my economic argument against it. I asked myself if it was the utility idea that triggered my protest.
I realized that it was not so. I have always been unhappy to be in or to have photographs . On wondering why, I realized that it was so because photographs left memories behind. True to my dark view of life I seemed to pay attention only to those brought painful memories back.
I could flip through the ones that did not arouse any feeling about the people, place or the phenomenon in the picture, unaffected by recollections. Often I would not even remember the settings or the dramatis personae in those pictures.
Painful memories, to me, are associated with people you want to be around always. People you want to be able to call up and speak when you wish to. Places you want to be able to go across and see, just as they were when you fell in love with them, unaffected by the vicissitudes of time. You want them to remain like a hall in an eternal museum that was meant to preserve everything about the place and object - except, of course, the mortal humans that would not be within the feeble grasp of the people who built the museum.
Pictures and photographs more often than not remind you of what you cannot see, do or have anymore, other than their mere memories. Places change irretrievably. People change irreversibly. They are not always the souls that gave you so much happiness that is the subject of the picture that you hold in your hand. People move on to places that you can no longer reasonably expect to visit at will. They move on in life, to social, economic and professional statures that do not allow you to enjoy the relationship that you had with them once upon a time. They become part of other people's lives and joy that you cannot partake of any more.
And some times, even more sadly, they move on from this world. And so when, with or without the help of the photograph, you are reminded of them you are overpowered by the urge to see them just once more, only to be overcome by the realization that you cannot, after all.
And so I hate photographs. I wish those memories that matter to me fade away slowly from my consciousness, like the colours of a poorly preserved portrait that fade away leaving one to imagine the picture as much as one can from the mere, hazy outlines of what was once a vivid representation of a real life and a real relationship.
I am sure you are asking if I should be making such a big deal of a mere selfie. You are right. I should not be. Who in his right mind would? Which normal man or woman would?
Well, in my defence, let me ask you if I ever told you I was in my right mind when I demurred or wrote this post? And have I ever told you I am normal? Finally did you notice the title? You are right - it is indeed much ado about a selfie, with due apologies to the Bard of Avon.
Nanni....Namaskaaram...
This post has instead been motivated by an impromptu conversation between my friend Satya and myself about a selfie that he made this morning with me.
My friendship with Satya is of recent vintage. He makes me feel far more special, successful and bigger than I am, or I will ever be, for reasons I am unable to imagine, in spite of a deviously fertile mind. Lakshmi, my ever admiring spouse, in a moment of uncharacteristic candour told me that he remains among my small band of friends only because he pampers my ego. All of which will have to be evaluated separately.
So when Satya chose to make a selfie with the sylvan main gate at IIMB as a backdrop I demurred that we have enough pics and selfies that the marginal utility of this one would be negligible.
Selfies generally belong to the world of the sentimental heart while the idea of marginal utility is a construct that is more usually associated with the rational head. It is true that economists really don't care what the source of utility is - it could be anything from shareholder's wealth to a marauder's sense of power to the emotional fulfillment that lovers claim to derive from a moment of romance.
Speaking for myself, I can relate only to the first of the three payoffs above. But that does not mean that the cruel pleasure from inflicting pain or loss or the joy of finding love, true or otherwise, is any less real. I have never taken lives. I have never managed to consummate my longing for romance into a relationship, before or after my marriage. The only source of romance I know of is the joy of being with my wife, Lakshmi.
Satya was not very impressed with my argument against the selfie and went on to click one eventually. Long after he clicked I went back to what I sensed was his disapproval of my economic argument against it. I asked myself if it was the utility idea that triggered my protest.
I realized that it was not so. I have always been unhappy to be in or to have photographs . On wondering why, I realized that it was so because photographs left memories behind. True to my dark view of life I seemed to pay attention only to those brought painful memories back.
I could flip through the ones that did not arouse any feeling about the people, place or the phenomenon in the picture, unaffected by recollections. Often I would not even remember the settings or the dramatis personae in those pictures.
Painful memories, to me, are associated with people you want to be around always. People you want to be able to call up and speak when you wish to. Places you want to be able to go across and see, just as they were when you fell in love with them, unaffected by the vicissitudes of time. You want them to remain like a hall in an eternal museum that was meant to preserve everything about the place and object - except, of course, the mortal humans that would not be within the feeble grasp of the people who built the museum.
Pictures and photographs more often than not remind you of what you cannot see, do or have anymore, other than their mere memories. Places change irretrievably. People change irreversibly. They are not always the souls that gave you so much happiness that is the subject of the picture that you hold in your hand. People move on to places that you can no longer reasonably expect to visit at will. They move on in life, to social, economic and professional statures that do not allow you to enjoy the relationship that you had with them once upon a time. They become part of other people's lives and joy that you cannot partake of any more.
And some times, even more sadly, they move on from this world. And so when, with or without the help of the photograph, you are reminded of them you are overpowered by the urge to see them just once more, only to be overcome by the realization that you cannot, after all.
And so I hate photographs. I wish those memories that matter to me fade away slowly from my consciousness, like the colours of a poorly preserved portrait that fade away leaving one to imagine the picture as much as one can from the mere, hazy outlines of what was once a vivid representation of a real life and a real relationship.
I am sure you are asking if I should be making such a big deal of a mere selfie. You are right. I should not be. Who in his right mind would? Which normal man or woman would?
Well, in my defence, let me ask you if I ever told you I was in my right mind when I demurred or wrote this post? And have I ever told you I am normal? Finally did you notice the title? You are right - it is indeed much ado about a selfie, with due apologies to the Bard of Avon.
Nanni....Namaskaaram...
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