Only What They Do – Comfort of Basic Tools

There are days when I find myself yearning for the basics, for a simplicity that seems almost forgotten in our world of constant hurry. Complicated things rarely bring me peace. What I long for are objects and experiences that carry honesty, that speak clearly of their purpose. Nothing more, nothing less !

Take the telephone for example. I would rather have a simple line phone with a rotary dialer, where each turn of the dial made a small clicking sound, than the sleek glass screen of today’s smartphones. There was something steady about waiting for the dial to spin back, as if time itself moved a little slower and more patiently. Each call was for a purpose. Today, messages race past, impersonal and fleeting, lost in a flood of forwards and nonsense. I use a smartphone out of necessity, for work and connection, but I must be one of those rare breeds that keep my landline too, for the small and steady joy it brings.

I would pick a traditional radio over a bluetooth speaker any day. A radio isn’t perfect, it crackles, it drifts, sometimes I have to adjust the antenna, but that is exactly the charm. It connects me not just to music but to voices, to the warmth of someone speaking across invisible waves. As I write this, I am enjoying some nice old Kumaoni music on 100.8 Mhz.

The same goes for books. A paperback has weight, smell, and the joy of turning a page. A Kindle may hold a thousand titles and even a dictionary, but it can never replace the comfort of holding a single book. Some say that a Kindle suits someone like me since it saves paper, yet that deserves a deeper thought when one considers the carbon footprint of the device and the ebooks themselves. I seem to be digressing here (a word my friend favours and one I have grown fond of myself). There is something quietly grounding about holding a simple paper book, feeling its weight, turning its pages, and breathing in that earthy, relaxed comfort.

I prefer an alarm clock that is simply a clock, with hands that glow faintly in the dark. It wakes me when needed without dragging me into a maze of notifications. No apps, no settings, just a simple instrument doing what it has always done. Sometimes the gentle ticking lulls me to sleep, and at other times it distracts me. On those rare nights, I simply hide it under a thick pillow.

Today I went to the nearby market in search of a torchlight. I wanted the kind I have always used, a steel body, battery-powered, reliable. The shop offered flashlights with Bluetooth speakers, solar chargers, radios, and even one with a remote control. After much searching, I found a simple battery-powered torch, though in plastic. It may not shine like the new gadgets, but it does exactly what it should.

And lights. How much more human it feels to walk up and flick a switch, to feel the click under my finger, than to ask Alexa to brighten or dim the world for me. The act itself is grounding, immediate, personal.

No Internet of Things for me for everyday stuff. No voice assistants or apps trying to govern every small detail of life. Give me the basics, tools that do their work and then step aside. A fridge or microwave with a Wi-Fi connection is beyond my understanding. Why does my weighing machine need to remind me to drink water? IoT may make sense for applications in security services or healthcare, but not in everything at home. I do not need a kettle that sends me a notification when the water boils.

I like canvas bags with a couple of pockets that last a lifetime, sturdy and dependable, instead of polyester bags with countless zips and compartments, and even absurd little slots to attach USB devices. Give me a plain, honest bag that wears with age and gathers stories, rather than a flashy one that falls apart in a season. And then there are the inventions that try too hard. Smart toilet seat covers? Are you joking? Definitely not for me. A chair should be a chair, not a massage parlour with a control panel. Even spectacles come now with Bluetooth and cameras. I would rather keep my reading glasses simple, the way they are meant to be.

Somehow, I never could come to like a mini Swiss knife. I never found it useful. I would rather have a proper set of knives in the kitchen and a proper set of screwdrivers in the toolbox. And when it comes to opening a bottle, nothing beats the solid iron openers that vendors once used in cinema theatres and circuses. They would make music on the glass cold-drink bottles with them, a playful prelude before opening the cap. That kind of bottle opener has just one purpose – to open bottles, and it does it with quiet dignity.

Simple things with a purpose work better than tools that seem to give lots of additional facilities. Simplicity is not about being old-fashioned. It is about breathing easier, about letting life go on without an extra layer of fuss. Simplicity brings about a feeling of being grounded, of peace, and also of relaxed happiness. In choosing less, I feel I choose more – more presence, more calm, more of what matters.

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