THE BORROWED OPINIONS
I missed my usual walk this morning. The one that takes me down a winding, black-tar road to a serene, glassy lake, where the mist hangs so thick you feel you could cup it in your hands, cold and wet. I can almost hear the familiar sounds: the rhythmic squeak of Mr. Jain’s walking shoes against the damp tar, the gentle chatter of fellow walkers, their voices soft like birdsong, and the crisp click of a camera capturing a lone kingfisher perched on a rock. That’s the magic of these morning rituals. The words spill out as freely as the mist.
Just last week, Mr. Chaudhary, a retired bank manager, talked about his grandson's first cricket match. His face glowed with a pride so pure you could almost taste its sweetness. Mrs. Gupta, smelling faintly of jasmine and agarbatti from her morning prayers, shared her recipe for Rawa Idly, promising to write it down for everyone. An old gentleman, just recovering from knee surgery, spoke of the simple pleasure of being able to walk again, his voice cracking with emotion, each word a step of its own. It’s all so natural, so effortless. Our defenses are down; our hearts are open, unguarded.
Morning in the hills is not like morning in the city. Here, the wind carries the fragrance of pine and wet soil—a deep, earthy scent that clings to your clothes—not the impatient, metallic horns of traffic. The sky is a wide, endless canvas, a soft gray that feels like velvet, waiting for the first stroke of orange.
The rhythmic drumming of raindrops on the tin roof of my cottage verandah is a song of pure Sunday stillness, a hypnotic rhythm that slows the pulse. The air, washed clean, smells of wet earth and pine needles, a scent that reminds me of my village farm after a monsoon shower, a time when the soil breathed and the earth is alive.
Before me, the vast Himalayas unfold—a symphony of misty peaks and shadowed slopes, their jagged edges softened by the distance. Clouds, like wandering souls from an old folk tale, emerge and vanish. I sit with my chai, my hands wrapped around the warm glass, its heat a gentle comfort against the crisp air. For a fleeting moment, I feel as if the world is in balance. No screens. No buzzing notifications. Just the rhythm of breath, the rustle of leaves, and the slow, quiet heartbeat of being.
And then comes the daily resolve: aaj phone nahi uthana jaldi. Not till after breakfast, not till I’ve soaked enough of this silence. It sounds easy, noble even, like a yogi’s vow. But the phone sits there—a sly little box of temptations, its screen a dark mirror reflecting the soft light. One flick and the peace of the hills will give way to the chaos of forwards, reels, memes, politics, cures, and endless noise.
By mid-morning, the resolve breaks. Sometimes gently, sometimes like a dam giving way. The phone glows, and with it, the day changes tone. One swipe, 'data on'—and the peace shattered. A thousand little red dots lit up the phone screen like Diwali lamps. WhatsApp was already brimming, eager to dictate the mood of my morning.
I didn’t even need to click open every chat; the previews were enough. One group passionately defending a leader, another mocking him mercilessly, yet another declaring who was anti-national and who was the “true protector of dharma.”
And what hurt me most was not the noise itself, but the fact that these very messages were dividing real people—friends I had laughed with, traveled with, broken bread with. Long bonds were drifting apart, not because they no longer cared for each other, but because the reels and forwards had taught them to see one another as enemies wearing different political colors.
I hold my steaming chai cup. There’s something about a cup of chai that makes confessions easier. Maybe it’s the steam fogging my spectacles, maybe it’s the slow swirl of elaichi and adrak, a scent that warms you from the inside, or maybe it’s just that in India, chai is never just chai—it’s a pause, a punctuation, a mirror.
And in these chai-pauses, I have been noticing something unsettling. It’s not one big catastrophe, but a thousand tiny cracks running silently across our daily walls. This is how it begins: a small joke, a half-truth dressed as breaking news, a video clipped just short enough to spark outrage. Slowly, quietly, a seed of dislike is sown—for a community, for a neighbor, sometimes even within families.
You know, sometimes I wonder how small things become walls between people. Once upon a time, I had a friend—let’s call him Samand. We grew up on the same gali, shared the same samosas, their crisp edges giving way to a soft potato filling, laughed over the same silly cricket matches.
But then one day, politics walked in. Not directly, not rudely. Just like an uninvited guest who starts staying longer than needed. One Facebook post here, one WhatsApp forward there, and slowly, a rift appeared. One swears by Modi, the other by Rahul. At first it was banter, jokes on election memes, small teases on who will fix petrol prices faster. But slowly, a bitterness seeped in.
One stopped attending birthday parties, the other quietly left a WhatsApp group. Forty years of friendship scattered like loose change just because of who raised slogans for “vikas” and who shouted for “nyay.”
And it’s not just politics. Religion, which once brought comfort and meaning, is now a sharp edge in digital debates. A Hindu boy hesitates before marrying a Muslim girl, not because of love lost but because of whispers at family gatherings. A Muslim neighbour, once who sent sheer-khurma every Eid, now avoids even eye contact in the lift.
Hatred doesn’t come like a flood—it drips like a leaking tap, drop by drop, until the bucket fills with suspicion. Hatred doesn’t storm in, you see. It seeps in like dampness in monsoon walls—quietly, slowly, until one day you wake up and realize your home smells different. Our conduct is changing, our laughter feels measured, our greetings weighed by surnames.
At home too, the oddities continue. A friend of mine—educated, sensible, mother of two—has become obsessed with thinness. Not only hers, but her daughter’s and even her husband’s. Every lunch is now a calorie chart, every dinner a lecture on carbs, every holiday a guilt trip over maida and sugar. Her son secretly eats samosas at the school canteen, their hot, spicy aroma a small rebellion. Her husband sneaks gol gappas from his favourite roadside vendor, the sharp tang of tamarind a forbidden pleasure. But at home, they all nod to salads, performing a play no one enjoys. It unsettles the rhythm of their house. Dinner, once a noisy, indulgent affair, now feels like a board meeting of a start-up called Weight-Loss Pvt. Ltd. We’ve forgotten that paranthas with butter are as healing as any yoga asana, the richness- a balm for the soul.
And then there are the kitty-party ladies. God bless them. Once they sang antakshari, played tambola—now they rehearse Instagram reels. The same ladies who used to laugh over mismatched rotis now pout in slow-motion with designer blouses. They once met for gossip, now they meet for reels. Suddenly fifty-plus-year-old aunties—wearing sunglasses in drawing rooms with velvet curtains drawn, lips pursed, phone in one hand—dance awkwardly, lip-syncing to teeny-bopper songs. It’s funny, a little endearing, and yet I wonder—are they performing for themselves or for a faceless audience out there, whose likes and comments give them a high no bhaang ever did? The joy looks forced, the smiles rehearsed—but the “likes” make them feel validated. Real happiness is replaced by borrowed applause.
Youngsters are caught in an even harsher trap. Their feeds are endless reels of travel influencers sipping mocktails on beaches, couples driving luxury cars, parties where every face shines under neon lights. For them, everything must look glamorous. Slowly they begin to believe this is life: ever glamorous, ever curated. And when their own lives don’t sparkle in the same way—the office assignments, the traffic, the ordinary evenings—sadness creeps in, uninvited but persistent. Depression is no longer about loss, it’s about not being enough, not being seen, not being liked. Because real life, after all, is not always 'reel life.'
The adolescents , these poor souls are forced to grow up faster than their age. Once upon a time, teenage meant cricket in the gali, chalk-marks on walls, first crushes exchanged through stolen glances. Today, they are pushed into adulthood before time. Boys of 14 speaking like political pundits, girls of 15 already dieting, learning contouring tricks from YouTube before they’ve learnt how to ride a scooter.
As for our seniors—those who once carried libraries in their heads—they too have started quoting “WhatsApp University.” The very generation that gave us wisdom is forwarding conspiracy theories without checking. Uncles and aunties who once narrated Premchand and Harivansh Rai Bachchan now confidently tell you that rubbing onion on your feet cures blood pressure, because they “read it in a forward.”
Their accumulated wisdom is quietly being replaced by someone else’s manufactured syllabus. The treasure of experience they had once stored is replaced by recycled posts, half-knowledge, and shaky theories. It’s almost tragic—the wise, leaning on the shallow.
What strikes me is not the quantity, but the intent.
Every group—school friends, office colleagues, even the neighbourhood kitty gang—is no longer just about sharing. It’s about preaching, converting, influencing. A harmless adda of friends is now a battlefield of ideas where people fight over Modi, Rahul, Sanatan, Hijab, Sindoor, Sanctions, Pakistan, Khalistani. The topics change daily, but the sharpness remains. We are not living; we're being programmed.
The digital guru has convinced us that our lives are not real unless they are a performance.
We’ve outsourced our opinions, our joys, our identities. The screen has become our puppeteer.
It tells us what to admire, what to despise, what to eat, what to fear.
And we, in turn, surrender our time, attention, and even relationships.
The business thrives, because our addiction is its currency. Every forward, every viral reel, every outrage adds to the meter. Hatred, laughter, glamour, gossip—each is just raw material for someone else’s business plan So while we think we are scrolling by choice, we are actually being scrolled—for profit.
When you share a fiery meme, remember: outrage isn’t free—it fuels platforms, parties, and pockets. What looks like random fun, though, is anything but. It is a business—huge and thriving. There’s money in this circus. India's influencer marketing sector alone is projected to reach ₹3,375 crore by 2026.
The truth is simple, almost ancient: if you do not direct your mind, something else will.
A guru once said, “Guard your attention, for it is the door to your soul.”
Today, the ones knocking at that door are not sages but apps—‘The Modern Digital Guru’.
So what’s the way out? Not to throw away your phone, but to reclaim your sovereignty over it. To pause before forwarding, to resist the itch to scroll, to let silence be your morning companion before the noise barges in. To sit with your own thoughts long enough that they feel like yours again.
I try to start small. I reclaim my mind and my emotions. I let the phone buzz. I don’t jump. I sit with the silence. I taste the paratha, really taste it, with all its buttery glory, the crisp edges and the soft, flaky layers. I ask myself: Is this my truth, or is it a borrowed opinion?
Our ancient wisdom speaks of the antar-atma ki awaaz, the voice of the inner self. That voice is still there, waiting. It's just buried under someone else’s algorithms and greed. I implore you to guard that voice fiercely.
Because borrowed opinions will never bring the joy of original living.
The rain kept me back today, but perhaps it also returned something—a reminder of what it means to pause.
A reminder that missing a walk can sometimes become a greater walk inward. The mist, the silence, the chai, the hills—they all spoke of an older rhythm, one that doesn’t need validation, one that doesn’t crave applause, one that simply exists.
Perhaps that is the real walk we are all missing.
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About the Author
Sanjay Shharma is a seeker, storyteller, and observer of life who weaves timeless truths into everyday reflections. Drawing from the well of Indian wisdom and personal insight, his writings awaken remembrance—not of something new, but of what was always within. Through simplicity, stillness, and soulfulness, he invites us not to become more, but to remember who we already are
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