Healing Lines

Critics of technology often forget that tools are only as alienating as the purposes to which they are put. The same screen that hosts shallow scrolling can carry the most profound human exchanges.

We live in an age when technology is habitually accused of corroding human intimacy. It is the mobile phone that often stands in the dock for this ‘crime.’ It is blamed for fractured attention spans, compulsive scrolling the erosion of in-person conversations and the rise of a culture that trades emotions for emojis. The charges are familiar: children hunched over screens, families silent at the dinner table, friendships reduced to push notifications.

And yet, for millions of people separated from their loved ones by distance, work or circumstance, that same glowing rectangle is less a tool of alienation than a lifeline. I know this because, for me, the mobile phone – far more than just a device - is the only bridge to the one voice that has never ceased to care – that of my mother’s.

Like so many others, I work far from my hometown, detached from the everyday warmth of my mother’s kitchen, her gentle counsel and her wordless acts of care. My days are consumed by deadlines and meetings, the demands of a city that is remorselessly impersonal. And yet, each evening, I anticipate one thing above all else: her call.

It is never long and rarely elaborated. “Did you have lunch?” “What did you eat for dinner?” “How’s your health today?”

Simple questions, often repeated. But embedded in them is an unselfish investment of time and thought in my well-being. These calls are, in the most literal sense, ‘medicinal.’ They quieten the static of my day and remind me that someone, somewhere, loves without condition.

Once, midway through a crucial meeting, my phone began to buzz. The screen flashed “Ma.” My pulse quickened. Her unexpected calls during odd hours always carry the shadow of alarm: has something happened at home? Is she unwell? I excused myself, stepped into the corridor, and answered. “Everything is fine,” she said, “I just wanted to hear your voice.” The surge of relief I felt in that moment eclipsed any professional triumph that day.

It is fashionable to decry mobile phones as the great disconnector. But for those of us who live apart from our families, they perform the opposite function. A simple voice call, unadorned by filters or multimedia, can inject human warmth into a day otherwise dominated by strangers and steel.

The real power of these calls lies not in their content but in their constancy. My mother’s inquiries about my meals are not mere dietary checks. They are a coded assertion that she is still part of my daily life, however far away she may be.

High-speed data and instant messaging have their uses, but they cannot match the impact of a familiar voice saying, “Take care of yourself.” That phrase, repeated countless times, has become a kind of anchor. It cuts through the blare of a city’s ambitions and reminds me of the soil from which I grew.

On the most draining of days, when I can scarcely summon the energy to speak, I still take her call. Sometimes she talks about her day, a recipe she has perfected, or the flowering of a plant in her garden. In those minutes, the geography between us collapses. I am home again.

This is not merely sentimentality dressed up as pretentious technological commentary, but an overlooked truth.  For critics of technology often forget that tools are only as alienating as the purposes to which they are put. The same screen that hosts shallow scrolling can carry the most profound human exchanges. The same network that streams entertainment can also sustain bonds that might otherwise wither in silence.

Every call from my mother is proof that I am not alone, even in a metropolis where anonymity is the default. Her voice is reassurance in real time, a reminder that care travels faster than any courier and crosses any distance without a passport.

In an era when algorithms seek to mimic human connection, it is worth remembering that nothing digital can replace the cadence of a familiar voice that loves you. My mother’s calls are like rituals. And rituals, unlike trends, endure.

And so, when the next complaint about mobile phones surfaces, when someone sighs about society glued to screens, I will think of my own screen lighting up with that most welcome word: “Ma.”

(The writer is a cybersecurity professional and an avid traveller.)