We Too Had an Era…

This was not an ordinary generation.

It was a generation born between 1950 and 1980—one that has now crossed forty-five and is gradually moving toward sixty, seventy, and seventy-five. This was the generation that witnessed life transforming from black-and-white to colour, that learned contentment amid scarcity, and fulfilled dreams even with limited means. Its greatest achievement is not what it acquired, but the fact that it witnessed enormous changes and absorbed them without breaking, without complaint.

This generation learned how to place words on paper. Writing a letter was not merely communication—it was a cultural practice, almost a ritual. Choosing the paper, filling the pen with ink, selecting words carefully—because there was no “delete” button to correct mistakes. Every sentence carried restraint; every word carried responsibility. The postman was not just a messenger; he was a carrier of hope. Even love was written with patience—simply knowing that “the letter has reached” was enough as a declaration. When the reply would come was uncertain, and that uncertainty itself gave dignity to love.

Then time changed. Paper gave way to screens. Email arrived—fast, precise, formal. And surprisingly, the very generation that had written letters was the first to adapt to reading and writing emails. It did not resist. It said, “If time is changing, we must change too.” The fingers that once wrote letters remained just as restrained on the keyboard. Then came the fax, then the pager—which stayed briefly and disappeared—and then mobile phones, messages, WhatsApp. Yet this generation did not give equal importance to every message. It knew that not everything needs to be said.

The language of relationships was different then. There was a time when relationships were not “expressed”—they were simply lived. Saying “we love you” to parents did not come naturally, yet every life decision revolved around them. Dropping in at a friend’s house without notice was not considered rude. Sitting for hours at a neighbour’s home did not violate etiquette. Relationships had fewer explanations and greater acceptance. Today, relationships are expressed through words, statuses, and emojis, yet often presence itself is absent. Then, asking “Have you eaten?” was genuine concern; today the same question has become a formal message.

The memory generation witnessed a time when sounds were not recorded but settled in the heart. Heavy gramophone records, carefully wrapped in cloth, when they spun, felt as though time itself was turning with them. The sound emerging from beneath the needle was not clear, yet it carried warmth. Today’s high-definition sound lacks that roughness—and perhaps that very roughness was the identity of memory. Children standing in queues before a bioscope experienced excitement far greater than today’s multiplexes, because imagination—not the screen—did the real work.

The kitchen, too, moved at a slower pace. Lentils were not cooked in pressure cookers; they simmered slowly on earthen stoves or charcoal hearths, and along with them cooked household conversations, news, and relationships. Today food is prepared quickly, but the habit of sitting in the kitchen waiting for someone to return has diminished. The rubber “hawai chappal” with a strap across the foot was far more durable than today’s branded slippers. Clothes were limited; often the entire family’s clothes were stitched from the same fabric. There was no competition to look different—looking together mattered more. Girls draped dupattas like shawls—not as fashion, but as effortless modesty.

Love, too, moved as slowly as the postman. Merely having a letter delivered was enough as an expression. There was no anxiety over “Seen,” no waiting for “Typing…”. The digital generation has more words, but the memory generation had more patience.

The pager arrived—and soon disappeared. It was the first signal that the world was about to speed up. Yet even then, the telephone remained tied to one corner of the house, not to the individual.

Games also bore the mark of time. Gulli-danda, marbles, kite-flying; learning to ride a bicycle first by using training supports—first balance, then speed. Games were not played on mobile screens but with dust-covered hands. Falling while playing, getting hurt, and then standing up again—these were life’s earliest lessons. This generation was beaten, scolded, yet never cultivated ego. The digital generation asks questions—and that is its right; but the memory generation knew how to listen and understand.

Even money had a different meaning. One, two, five, ten, twenty, twenty-five, and fifty paise were not merely coins—they were an entire childhood economy. Accepting money from guests never felt shameful, because it carried affection, not self-interest. From ink pens, slates, chalk, and pencils to smartphones, laptops, and PCs—this journey is not the story of technology, but of the ability to adapt.

This generation witnessed everything—from Pataudi to Kapil Dev, from Gavaskar to Vishwanath; from Raj Kapoor to Amitabh, from Rajesh Khanna to Shah Rukh Khan; from radio to VCR. Pooling money to rent a VCR and watching four or five films together was nothing short of a festival. Being beaten by teachers was not humiliation—the only fear was that it might be discovered at home. And even today, seeing a retired teacher instinctively makes one bow in respect.

This generation saw demonetisation, witnessed the pandemic, lockdowns, vaccines—so many events within a single lifetime. Yet it never blamed fate. It learned to live reality, and that is why its bond with dreams never broke.

Past days do not return, but memories never leave. And this generation also knew that every present day would someday become a golden memory.

We may have been good or bad—but we, too, had an era.