Ctrl+Alt+Delete
I hate deleting tweets. Especially when every single cell in you goads you not to. If there is a typo or an unintentional grammatical error or even a hint of misinformation/disinformation in them, then it’s perfectly alright in my books to get rid of them as soon as possible. However, if there is an element of perceived offence, then things get a bit dicey. Because as far as sentiments are concerned, intent is everything.
Anything can hurt anyone online.
For instance, your style of writing hurts me.
Another instance, your thought process hurts me.
Most importantly, your presence on my timeline hurts me.
Well, well, you hurt me.
The question is, what are we going to do about it? Unless deliberately directed at someone, all these hurt is practically a figment of imagination. Anybody can claim offence at anything just because our dancing fingertips on keypad/keyboard have become more powerful than our voice. It’s much easier to type in than speak out.
We’ve created a strange, strange world for ourselves, haven’t we?
We are going through this sorry blog post because I deleted a tweet today. In my mind, it was a funny and almost romantic take on a religious figure set against wintry weather. A figure, for reasons orthodox and vague than anything else, can’t be discussed except in the light of blinding glory. So much so this peculiar approach by mainstream discourse has reached a point that we put mythological characters to more scrutiny than somebody who actually existed. Anyway, my joke didn’t bother to venture into these minefield of taboos. My attempt at humour was, to put it heavily forward, was light. But quite a few people on Twitter disagreed. Some replied to the post while others messaged claiming that it is hurtful. It’s worth pondering where is this hurt emanating from.
Here’s the tweet for you:
Q: What did Khadija sing for Prophet while knitting him a sweater?
A: ♫ Ye Moh Moh ke dhaage…♫
For the record, I’ve never shied away from cracking a benign pun on religion and its many fascinating characters be it Jesus or Rama or Krishna or Shiva or Buddha. So, the burden of religio-phobia isn’t on me. I’ve always maintained that religion as an entity sucks big time but the elements of faith continue to fascinate me. For what it’s worth, those who objected today proved to be intolerant while I proved to be docile. Something neither should be proud of.
Similarly, a couple of weeks ago, I deleted another tweet. This happened during the height of #MeToo movement and many a folks took my post way too seriously. Again, in my head, the words were innocuous and if anything, sided with the victims of male fantasy instead of the perpetrators. To me, that’s where we should draw the line of humour; we shouldn’t laugh — or try to draw laughter — at someone’s suffering simply on the merit of freedom of speech. Freedom of speech is more of a responsibility than leisure and I understood it long time ago. Turned out it was apparently too soon to post something from the humour lane when the topic is so intense. I thought that’s a fair point although my tweet wasn’t doing any damage to the ongoing narrative. On the contrary, it was adding a perspective from those who don’t send unsolicited images on the Internet because they are already ashamed of their physical shortcomings.
Here’s the deleted tweet:
“Have you ever sent a dick pic on social media?”
“Hum apne kamiyo ka tamasha kyun karein?”
Lastly, both these martyred tweets don’t really elicit haha reactions. They almost make you think as they aren’t laced by a set template of malice. If you notice, offence-takers thrive on set templates of victimhood. There is nothing new or noble about their alleged suffering. The desire to stifle another person’s voice has become a favourite recourse for those who know that fingertips will continue dancing. When you delete something you don’t want to, you don’t really lose but those who made you delete win. It’s a weird battle of witlessness. Regardless, I have no intention of pushing an envelope I am never going to open. Faith or no faith.
