By Vipra Warekar
Mom’s glued to her smartphone screen,
Lit up like a beauty queen.
Dad’s lost in a pixel stream —
Probably texting AI to dream.
The table’s set, the meal is warm
Just right, organic, not too white form.
But no one tastes the herbs or flesh —
They're busy liking someone’s enmesh.
“Look, kids! The future’s bright,” parents cheer,
As Wi-Fi rules every gear.
The roast is sad, the gravy cold,
But hey, someone just got trolled.
No chatter floats across the spread,
Just scrolling fingers and heads bowed dead.
The plate standing still,
The meal just getting chill.
Grandpa grumbles, “Back in my day,
We passed the bread—not phones in play!
We laughed, we fought, we shared a stool—
Now Siri knows you better, fool.”
Now birds don’t sing—they simply scroll,
They tweet now—literally, with wing and role.
The trees? Just fuel for 5G's throne,
Each mind elsewhere—each soul outzone.
Dad’s got gadgets, shiny, new,
That track his steps and tell him clue
Of who just posted a meme or shared a tweet —
While audio wraps around the meat.
Mom speaks in Alexa’s voice,
The scheduled meals giving a choice.
Teens ask Siri for a hug,
And be outside a thug.
Electric cars hum down the street,
Yet factories still spew their heat.
Forward strides echo, bold and fierce,
While Earth retreats beneath a smoky pierce.
The dinner table, once so bright,
Now glows with screens instead of light.
And screens that turn back —
With dopamine and panic attack!
“We’re connected!” they proclaim with pride,
Yet no one meets the eyes beside.
In rooms full of voices, silence speaks,
As screens become the faces we seek.
Outside, the sky is slightly grey,
But with filters well—looks okay.
We mask the flaws, the cracks,
Hiding truths behind digital tracks.
At dinner now, no one converses,
Just scrolls memes and AI verses.
The cost is more than just a power bill,
It’s dried-up streams and smoke we inhale still.
So here’s a toast with plastic cups,
Tangled cords and charging ups.
To gadgets gleaming, forests laid,
And all the quiet dreams we've paid.
But maybe — just be a little crazy,
We drop the phones, look up - hazy.
But maybe, once the screen goes black,
We’ll look around and life track.
So let’s reclaim what screens can’t fake,
The laughs, the mess we make.
Let dinner be a human place—
With crumbs, not cords, all over the place.
And maybe then, we’ll truly dine —
With food, talk, soul, with spine.
Unplugged, unfiltered, face to face —
Reclaiming time, Reclaiming grace.