London: This morning was my school BFF's birthday. When I called to wish, she told me, between laughter and disbelief, that her father had accidentally sent a cake to himself instead of to her. She lives in Gandhinagar; he is in Kolkata. The entire operation, naturally, was conducted online.

Not to be outdone, her mother, clearly viewing this as a competitive sport, swiftly ordered flowers as well. Hers arrived on time, at the correct address, and without incident. The score now stands: Mother 1, Father 0. Digital supremacy firmly established. And just like that, the grand saga of parents, technology, and social media unfolds.

My father, now an octogenarian and impressively up to date with global affairs, inherited a tablet after my mother's passing. What began as a tentative exploration soon turned into a full-fledged relationship with Facebook and Instagram. It brought him joy, connection, and a welcome distraction from grief. It also brought me a steady stream of mild panic.

His first major contribution to the internet was his profile picture. For several months, it was a close-up of his nose-- majestic, immovable, stamped with a badge that read, 'I have taken my Covid vaccine.' On the one hand, slightly alarming. On the other, a powerful public health message. I chose to focus on the latter.

Then came the friend requests. He began with family, moved on to friends and neighbours and then, like an overenthusiastic diplomat, expanded relations to include my school and university circles. To be fair, he was delightful. Generous with praise, unfailingly polite, and always cheering people on as though they were about to compete in the Olympics.

And then... he discovered my past.

Every teenager, no matter how transparent they claim to be, maintains a discreet archive of crushes, admirers, and questionable romantic decisions. There is no official disclosure policy. My father, however, conducted his own independent audit.

At first, I stayed calm. After all, these were just connections. Harmless. Academic, even. Then came the comments. Public. Detailed. Enthusiastic.

'Smarter than the smartest!' 'Extremely handsome!'

'Such a fine young man!' All directed, without discrimination, at former romantic interests who had, until that moment, remained safely archived in the past. Those who know me are aware of the careful, almost diplomatic effort I have put into maintaining a certain, well, composed and dignified image over the years. My father dismantled it in under a week. Effortlessly. And with great affection.

At this point, my sister-in-law was promoted to head of digital affairs, stepping in to gently explain concepts like 'context,' 'boundaries,' and 'why we don't comment on everything we see'. Political commentary, in particular, was placed under close supervision.

Post feedback, the commenting continued, barring politics. The profile pic of the nose changed to a full face.

And yet, this is not a complaint. Because beneath the comedy lies something far more fascinating, the sheer speed at which the world has changed, and the determination with which an entire generation is trying to keep up. Sometimes gracefully, sometimes chaotically, but always with intent.

Of course, the humour has its limits. There is a more troubling side. Stories of elderly parents being duped by fraudulent calls and fake emergencies are far too common. The same curiosity that leads them to explore can also make them vulnerable.

And that is the part that lingers. These are individuals who once ran organisations, made critical decisions, and navigated complex worlds with confidence. To now see them decoding apps, algorithms, and online etiquette, with varying degrees of success, is both humbling and, at times, a little worrying.

And yet, somewhere between the self-delivered cake and the unsolicited compliments on ancient exes, there is something undeniably endearing. A generation refusing to be left behind. Even if it means occasionally sending themselves flowers to prove a point.