I want to be a smartphone

It was a chilly winter evening in Srinagar. The golden sunlight streamed into our cozy living room, and my mother had just brewed her signature kahwa. I sat by the window, observing the frosted glass panes, lost in thought. My name is Shireen—derived from the word “sweet”, a name that, for as long as I remember, has carried the burden of emotions, thoughts, and unspoken words. I often wonder what life would be like if I were someone—or perhaps something—that received all the attention and care I longed for.

That’s when I thought, I want to be a smartphone.

The idea sounds strange, doesn’t it? But let me explain.

I grew up in a home where stories were shared over dinner tables, laughter echoed in the living room, and every sigh or smile from a family member was understood—even without words. Back then, communication felt alive. It was a lifeline, like an invisible thread binding us all together.

Today, those threads feel like they’ve frayed. If you observe closely, you’ll see people sitting in the same room, not speaking to one another but immersed in the glowing screens of their smartphones.

Fathers no longer share stories of their childhood. Mothers, once the keepers of family traditions, now scroll endlessly through social media. Children—oh, the children—grow up seeking validation from strangers online, missing the joy of a simple hug or praise from their parents. Conversations have been replaced by "seen" and "double-tick" notifications. Love has been reduced to emojis.

It is heartbreaking.

And here I sit—Shireen—the daughter, the writer, the observer, trying to hold my words, thoughts, and emotions close to my chest, feeling like I might burst.

For where do I vent? Where do I go when I want to be heard?

In a family where smartphones are companions, there’s little room for real conversations. Sometimes, I try to share a thought, a poem, or even a memory from my day, only to find my words drowned by the constant tapping of fingers on screens. Their attention is fleeting—given only to what appears on their devices. My words hang in the air like unacknowledged whispers.

And so, I find myself wishing: If I were a smartphone, they’d listen to me.

Lack of communication has become an invisible epidemic. The irony? We live in an age where “connecting” has never been easier—yet real connection is slipping away. Families that once gathered to share joys and sorrows now share a roof, nothing more. Parents don’t always realize that their silence leaves an emotional void in their children. A child’s unspoken struggles, their fears, or even their smallest achievements go unnoticed because no one is looking up.

The lack of awareness is staggering. It doesn’t hit us immediately; it creeps in silently. Over time, parents and children grow apart—not because they don’t love each other, but because they’ve stopped showing it.

A mother’s gentle “How was your day?” is replaced by a quick “Hmm” while scrolling through WhatsApp. A father’s wisdom-filled advice disappears, replaced by forwarded videos of fleeting motivation.

A child’s cry for attention is smothered under the weight of technology.

Where do we go from here?

We need to pause.

As families, as friends, as humans—we need to reclaim the pleasure of meaningful communication. Sit with your parents. Look into their eyes when they speak. Put away the smartphone when you’re having dinner together. Ask your children about their dreams. Tell them you are proud of them. Because the most precious conversations are not the ones stored in a chat box; they are the ones you carry in your heart.

If smartphones continue to dominate our time and emotions, we will lose the very essence of being human.

So, I don’t want to be a smartphone after all.

I want to be heard. I want to be seen—not on a screen but in the real, breathing world. I want laughter to ring out without filters. I want hands to hold mine, not devices. I want the “likes” to come from the people I love, not strangers I’ve never met.

And perhaps, one day, if we all learn to listen, look up, and embrace real conversations again, our hearts will feel full—not our storage.

For now, though, I remain Shireen—bursting with words and emotions, hoping they find a place to land.

Maybe tonight, when my  parents  sit together I’ll ask them to put away their smartphones, pour themselves a cup of kahwa, and just talk.

Because that’s where the real magic begins.

Let us not forget the joy of looking into each other’s eyes—without a screen in between.