Pieces Of My Heart

The first computer in our house did not arrive so much as it was installed, like a deity taking residence. It was a Gateway desktop, big, beige, boxy, and serious. A machine that looked like it had opinions about discipline and posture.

My dad bought it and assembled it for me, though “for me” was generous phrasing. It was for education. For the future and for skills. The kind of future that sounded important but suspiciously involved sitting very still.

When he finished setting it up, my sister, mom and I stood around it the way villagers stand around a newly dug well, hopeful, respectful, slightly afraid. No one touched it immediately. Touching felt rude.

When I finally did, it was with freshly washed hands and a sense of ceremony.

So, I was born offline but I’m permanently online

The Sacred Hours of the Internet

Back then, the internet was not free-flowing. It was timed. Regulated. Moral. AT&T broadband (or dial-up, depending on memory and trauma) gifted us free internet between 12 midnight and 8 a.m., which meant our household promptly turned nocturnal.

We became owls. Insomniacs with purpose, waiting our turn.

At exactly 11:59 p.m., the room would fill with anticipation. At 12:00 a.m., the modem would sing its ancient song keerrrr-pshhh-reeee-krk-krk…a sound that was half robot distress call, half spiritual chant.

If it connected on the first try, it felt like destiny approved of you.

Awe, Wonder, and Excessive Respect

I watched that screen like it was alive. Windows opened. Files transferred, when we gave a command, like obedient little paper sprites, hopping politely from one folder to another, single-file, no questions asked.

A tiny window popped up, showing two folders whispering to each other, while a square of pixels marched bravely across, carrying our precious data like lunchboxes.

No progress bars screaming percentages, no spinning wheels of anxiety, just a calm, cheerful “I’m on it,”and the quiet faith that Windows 95 would keep its promise.

Antivirus scans marched across the screen with tiny magnifying lens icons that were, let’s be honest, adorable.

Everything felt important. Once I was done reluctantly, I shut the computer down properly.
I covered it when not in use. I didn’t eat near it. I didn’t even breathe near it too enthusiastically.

At that point, even Nana might’ve felt a twinge of envy, because this wasn’t a device. This was an elder. You didn’t use the desktop, you approached it. You clicked gently. You waited quietly.Every command was a request, not a demand. It didn’t rush, it considered. And when it finally responded, you nodded. Out of respect.

Little Did I Know…

Little did I know my life would eventually collapse into a glowing rectangle.

That my handwriting, once legible, sometimes even praised, would slowly devolve into a confused series of loops and apologies.

That my brain would move in tabs.

That my memory would outsource itself to search engines.

That “just checking something” would become a three-hour expedition.

I didn’t know that fresh air would slowly be replaced by screen glare. That running outside would be replaced by refreshing pages. That freedom would come with a charging cable.

The Great Trade-Off

The computer promised knowledge, and it delivered. Information became free, abundant, overwhelming. But time? Time became the most expensive currency of all. You sit down “for five minutes” and emerge older. You open one file and close seventeen tabs you don’t remember opening. The machine never forces you to stay, but it never tells you to leave either.

Looking Back (With Fondness and Mild Accusation)

That Gateway desktop didn’t ruin my life. It merely redirected it. It taught me wonder. It taught me patience. It taught me how easily awe becomes habit—and habit becomes dependence. And yet, I can’t be angry. Because that first computer was magic. Clumsy, noisy, slow magic, but magic nonetheless.

Bought by my dad with faith in the future. Handled by me with reverence. And quietly responsible for the fact that I’m now writing this… on a glowing rectangle. Some things change. Some things just upgrade.

And now…

I am a walking, talking computer. I have 17 mental tabs open, three of them frozen, two playing music I can’t locate, and one asking if I’m sure I want to exit. My brain has folders, subfolders, and at least one file named FINAL_FINAL_REALLY_FINAL.doc.

My sense of rationale and judgment is my pre-installed antivirus, constantly scanning for nonsense, occasionally quarantining people.
I plan. I execute. I occasionally crash and require snacks to reboot.

I run on low battery by evening, buffer mid-conversation, and respond better after updates called sleep. By night, all background processes slow down, thoughts auto-save themselves somewhere unknown, and I gently power down…only to restart the next morning…with the same tabs still open.

Built by my dad. Now, browsing powered by caffeine. Permanently buffering. I never shut down; I just go into low-power existential mode.Human.exe has stopped responding. Please try again tomorrow.

© Rohini 2009–2025.
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