I visited Keezhadi recently—a quiet village near Madurai, where the ground is giving up secrets that are 2,600 years old. Brick houses, water systems, writing on pottery… all part of a once-thriving civilisation during the Sangam period.

They had trade routes, poetry, tools, and systems. They crossed seas without GPS. Built cities without cement trucks. Passed down knowledge without cloud backups.

It made me wonder—how much have we really gained through “progress”? And what have we lost along the way?

Phones gave us connection on tap. But they took away long, meandering conversations. The kind where you talked just because you had nothing else to do.

Google Maps made life easier. But it also took away the chance encounters—the awkward, hilarious, occasionally helpful conversations with strangers while hunting for that elusive street corner.

The elevator saved our knees. But it also saved us from cardio, eye contact, and the accidental small talk that sometimes brightens a dull day.

Microwaves gave us convenience. But they also gave us uniformly hot but uniformly dull meals. The kind of food that’s warm but somehow lifeless—like a hug from a vending machine.

Air-conditioning gave us comfort. And buildings with sealed windows, where fresh air is just a theory.
Social media gave us reach. But often at the cost of depth.

Even the humble washing machine—blessing that it is—removed a time when people sat together, washing clothes by the river, exchanging gossip, jokes, sometimes wisdom. (It also reduced arm strength.)

I’m not arguing against technology. I’m not packing for a cave just yet.

But here’s the thing: with every upgrade, something old and human quietly exits the frame. Not with a bang, but with a polite shrug—like the friend who left the party without saying goodbye.

We rarely keep track of what we lose.
We almost never count the things that disappear.

What Do We Lose When Everything Gets Easier?

In trying to smoothen every experience, we may have polished off something essential. Friction isn’t always a flaw—it’s often the fingerprint of effort, presence, and care.

The delay before a letter arrived. The clumsy directions from a stranger sitting at the corner tea stall. The slow-cooked meal that made you wait—and talk while waiting. These weren’t bugs. They were features. They made us pause. Pay attention. They made the world—and each other—a little more real.

In our obsession with speed, scale, and seamlessness, maybe it’s time we asked: what’s the value of a little resistance? Of things that take effort, but leave a mark? Of progress that still lets humanity show through?

Friction reminds us that something is being done. That time is being taken. That life is still being lived in full sentences, not just swipes.

Progress is not the enemy. But friction is not always the villain. Sometimes, it’s the only thing standing between us and forgetting what it means to be human.

Keezhadi reminded me: our ancestors were inventive, but not obsessed with convenience. They built thoughtfully. Slowly. With care and friction.

Maybe that’s what made them civilisations worth unearthing.