THE VIRTUE OF WAITING
In the 1970s, waiting was not an inconvenience; it was a way of life. It shaped our desires, refined our expectations, and, in many ways, deepened our joys. To watch a film was not an impulsive act but a slow, unfolding experience—one that often began weeks, sometimes months, before we ever stepped into a theatre.
Our first glimpse into the world of cinema came through worn yet cherished copies of film magazines like Filmfare and Screen. These were not merely publications; they were gateways to imagination. We lingered over their pages, absorbing every photograph and caption, studying the expressions of our favourite stars as though they held secrets meant only for us. From a handful of still images, we built entire narratives in our minds, allowing anticipation to take root and flourish.
Then came the moment of recognition—a newspaper advertisement announcing the release of a long-awaited film. That small block of print held immense power. We read it repeatedly, almost reverentially, as though each word revealed a fragment of a larger dream. In those quiet moments, imagination did the work that technology now performs instantly. We envisioned scenes, dialogues, and dramatic turns, each more vivid than the last.
Yet, reality often imposed its gentle restraint. With limited pocket money, watching a film during its first run at the grand downtown theatres was a luxury beyond reach. And so, we waited again—patiently—for the film to arrive at the modest second-run theatres in our neighbourhoods. By then, the prints bore the marks of time: scratches streaked across the screen, occasional frames missing, sound sometimes uneven. But none of these imperfections diminished the experience. If anything, they made it more precious.
The act of going to the cinema was, in itself, a ritual. Tickets were purchased days in advance—often at discounted rates—and guarded carefully, like tokens of a promised delight. With those tickets safely tucked away, the days that followed were filled with a quiet, growing excitement. Each sunrise brought us closer to a moment we had already begun to savour in our minds.
Even at the theatre, the waiting continued. Seated in anticipation, we watched the curtains, listened to the hum of the projector, and felt a collective thrill ripple through the audience. And then, at last, the screen came alive. That final stretch of waiting—those few suspended moments—was perhaps the sweetest of all, for it carried within it the fullness of expectation fulfilled.
How gentle and rewarding that waiting used to be. Those months were not empty intervals but rich landscapes of imagination, hope, and emotional investment. Today, that landscape has changed. Films are released simultaneously across cities and platforms, and within days—sometimes hours—they are available on streaming services. What once demanded patience now requires nothing more than a click.
In gaining immediacy, we have quietly surrendered anticipation. The experience has become efficient, but also thinner—stripped of the layers that once made it meaningful. The joy of waiting, it seems, has been replaced by the habit of instant consumption.
This transformation extends beyond cinema. Consider the fading art of letter writing. There was a time when writing a letter was an act of devotion. One did not simply write; one composed. Thoughts were gathered, emotions weighed, and words chosen with care. A letter carried not just information, but a piece of the writer’s inner world.
And then came the waiting—the silent, hopeful interval between sending and receiving. That wait gave depth to relationships. It allowed emotions to mature and lent significance to every response. When a letter finally arrived, it was read slowly, often more than once, each reading revealing new shades of meaning.
Today, communication is swift and effortless. Messages travel instantly across continents, and replies are expected within moments. While this speed has its advantages, it raises a quiet, unsettling question: in eliminating the wait, have we also diminished the feeling?
Convenience has become the defining virtue of our age. It saves time, simplifies effort, and connects us with remarkable ease. Yet, in its silent conquest, it often erodes the subtler textures of human experience—the patience that deepens longing, the anticipation that enriches joy, and the reflection that gives emotion its true voice.
The virtue of waiting lies not in delay, but in transformation. It stretches time, allowing desire to ripen and meaning to take root. It teaches us that not everything of value must arrive instantly, and that some of life’s most cherished moments are those we have patiently prepared ourselves to receive.
Perhaps, then, the loss is not merely of waiting, but of what waiting once made possible within us. For when everything comes quickly, nothing stays long enough to truly matter. And in that quiet absence, we may discover that what we miss is not time—but depth.

Novin Christopher