The Last Password

Long before Facebook, Netflix, or online banking, there were Romans standing guard at city gates. Their system was simple: whisper the watchword of the day to be allowed in. No capitals, no special characters, and no OTPs — unless you count a spear pointed at your chest as multi-factor authentication.

Fast forward to 1961 at MIT, where Professor Fernando Corbató invented the first computer password for the Compatible Time-Sharing System. The idea was noble: let multiple users share one giant computer while keeping their files private. Unfortunately, by 1962 the first password hack also took place — when a clever student tricked the printer into spitting out everyone’s login details. Thus, the noble password was born and betrayed in the same decade.

Over time, passwords evolved into cryptographic puzzles. Unix in the 1970s introduced hashed passwords. By the 1990s, every email, chatroom, and ATM needed one. And now in 2025, you may need a password even to use a public toilet when you travel to a “smart” city. Kidding!

Ironically, Corbató himself later confessed that passwords had become “a nightmare.” The poor man invented a monster. If only he had patented “123456,” he would have been the richest person alive.

While passwords were busy ruining our memories, One-Time Passwords (OTPs) emerged in the late 1980s as a security fix. The idea was simple: even if someone stole your password, they couldn’t reuse it, because the OTP would expire in seconds. Banks loved them. Users hated them, especially when the device ran out of battery right before a major transaction.

Then came SMS OTPs in the 2000s. A brilliant idea, except for one thing: SMS is about as secure as writing your PIN on a postcard. Still, it became wildly popular because, well, everyone had a phone. Soon our pockets buzzed constantly: “Your OTP is 472918. Please do not share this with anyone.”

Today OTPs arrive by SMS, email, app, or even WhatsApp. By the time you find your glasses, unlock your phone, and read the code, it has already expired. Truly, OTP should stand for “Obviously Time Passed.”

We live in a world where every sneeze needs a password. Banking, electricity bills, online shopping the list goes on.

The Tyranny of Password Rules

I sometimes think password engineers are secret sadists. One site insists on exactly eight characters. Another demands twelve, including a capital letter, a number, a punctuation mark, and an Egyptian hieroglyph. Some websites reject your favorite password with the smug message: “This password has been used before.”

So I add an exclamation mark. Then it tells me: “Password too predictable.”

And what about those tragic moments when you finally create a complicated masterpiece of a password that gets “accepted” — only for the system to cheerfully remind you: “Password expires in 30 days.”

The OTP Circus

When you fail too many times, you enter the dreaded world of OTPs — One Time Passwords. Ah, the irony!

Sometimes two OTPs arrive at once. Which one is correct? Enter the wrong one and the system punishes you: “Too many attempts. Try again after 24 hours.” OTP then stands for “Obviously Time Passed.”

Password Managers and Other Monsters

People advise me to use a password manager. That sounds like a nice idea — except it requires… another password! The “master password,” they call it. So now, if I forget that, the whole digital empire crumbles like a house of cards.

And those pop-up questions about saving passwords on browsers — ah! When Chrome asks, “Would you like to save this password?” I tremble. It feels like a marriage proposal. If I click Yes, am I tied down forever? If I click No, will I be condemned to replay the password dance every morning? Truly, this is the scariest commitment decision since I said “I do.”

The Art and Science of Password Setting

Now, let’s talk about the creative genius of mankind in inventing passwords. People believe they are so clever at making them memorable. Here are few classics:

• The Pet Formula: “Tommy123” or “Sheru@2020.” Hackers love pets. They adore birthdays too.
  • The Lazy Ladder: “123456,” “abcdef,” or “qwerty.” These are the equivalent of leaving your front door wide open with a neon sign saying “Burglars Welcome.”
  • The Bollywood Twist: “Sholay@75” Congratulations — hackers in Mumbai already guessed it as they celebrate 50 years of Sholay after its first release.
  • The Lovebird Special: Boyfriends and girlfriends often use each other’s names. Breakups are hard enough and then people want to say “I forget my password” and get into a reset.

The so-called art of password setting is about being personal and easy to recall. The science of hacking is about knowing that humans are predictable creatures.

Cybersecurity experts recommend long random strings: “Xy7$Kdl!wQ9z.” Sure, but try whispering that to yourself you would end up circling back to “Password123.”

Inheriting Passwords in the Afterlife

The Professor’s mind also wanders to the future. Imagine writing your Will. Once, people annexed property documents, jewelry lists, and bank account details. Now, you must also annex a long list of passwords.

What a sight:
• “To my eldest daughter, I bequeath my library… along with the Netflix password.”
• “To my grandson, I leave the car… and the Wi-Fi router credentials.”
• “To my favorite student, I leave my email account… but be careful, the OTP will come to my phone, which you also inherit.”

Perhaps lawyers will soon specialize in “digital inheritance disputes.”

Everyday Absurdities

Coffee shops proudly display boards saying “Free Wi-Fi.” But the password is always a secret, written in such bad handwriting that you spend more time decoding the café chalkboard than enjoying the cappuccino.

Even ATMs are in on the joke. First, they ask for your card PIN. Then they demand your net banking password. And then, just as you’re about to withdraw, they send an OTP to your registered mobile — which of course has no signal inside the ATM cubicle.

Sometimes I wonder if we’ve lost the plot. Once, memory meant for remembering poems, equations, birthdays, and family recipes. Today, memory means recalling whether your password ended with 99, 999, or 9999 or with the dreadful @ $. We’ve outsourced our intelligence to machines, but the machines punish us if we forget.

Password to the Heaven

When the Gods learned about the earthly password paradox, Lord Yama (God of Death) proposed a similar digital system for entering the heaven. “Let us call it Smart Heaven, just like Smart Cities,” he declared.

So a password was introduced specific to every human being by Lord Brahma (God of creation) that was a secret. If one could guess that password by visiting inner self, seeking the ultimate truth, and the gates of heaven would open; if not, the response would be the familiar, merciless: “Password incorrect.”

Unlike earthly systems that cruelly lock you out after three failed attempts, the cosmic password has no such limit. You could keep trying throughout your lifetime entry to the heaven— and if you still failed, you continue in the next life, and the next one and so on.

I asked Lord Vishnu (God of Protection) whether there was at least a “Forgot Password” option, or perhaps a universal master key like MySweetLord. Lord Vishnu only smiled.

And in that smile, I understood: the Gods already know what we mortals have forgotten —the essence of Mutual Trust. We, instead, have built our password and OTP systems on mistrust — layering them with greed, insecurity, inequality, and the clutter of human flaws. Perhaps heavenly systems may not be conventionally digital at all. Or maybe if they are —the only double authentication they may run must be on soul (not face) recognition.

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