The Humble Landline

1981. I was in class 1.  

Recalling dates can be an effortless task as long as they don’t belong in our history books! Of course, some dates remain ingrained in our minds if they have extraordinary memories associated with them; and I have countless ones from my childhood that can never, by any means, ebb away. Coming back to that morning of 1981. The phone rings and I answer. A heavily accented, almost incomprehensible ‘hullaao’ tells me it’s from an uncle, a neighbour- the only one in our extra wide circle of family and friends who had made it to the US back then and had thence been the talk of every conversation in my house, even remotely related to America.  The theatrical extravaganza that ensued in my house with the advent of this call was a spectacle that is worth writing about. The noise levels in my already noisy house (I grew up in a joint family :) ) would rise further because each one present there would be shouting … “America se phone hai. Bas hello bolna aur humein de dena!”(The call is from America, so just say hi and pass on the phone to us)! The commotion, confusion and the hurried hellos all attributed themselves to the exorbitant rates for international calls made from India. Calling from the US was nominal but nobody in my house seemed to get that.  Everyone would be scampering to get hold of the receiver of a not so sightly-looking phone, a regular 1970s model, now spotted only in plush living rooms of some Indian homes as an ‘objet d’art’ along with the other antiques on display.

The amusing part is that the call was not meant for us. It landed in our house only because ours was among the few houses in the neighbourhood that had a phone back in those days. Somebody had to rush to convey a message to my uncle’s family that lived two lanes away that they needed to drop everything and run to our house, since he would call again soon. Uncle’s family would come rushing and would be treated to chai and biscuits; even samosas (if the samosewala had his big, black kadahi heated by then).… only because they had come to attend a phone call.  Post the call, every time, there was an interesting exchange of views about the cleanliness in that country, the no-maid concept and the stringent laws. Uncle’s family would mostly be persuaded to share a meal with us before they left.

 Cut to 2015.

Whatsapp, skype, viber, gtalk, facebook- names synonymous with communication. They’ve made this world a small and easy place to live in. They’ve brought parents close to their children, grandparents close to their grandchildren and connected everyone to each other. Lost is the mystical aura of the humble landline, the only mechanism to a quick and smooth verbal communication once upon a time. Lost along with that landline are the umpteen conversations and cups of tea that I was so accustomed to, considering calls from Dubai and London from neighbours’ kids were a norm in my house.

Technology is good. It has made everything faster and easier. But what it leaves me wondering with is, that when daily chores are completed quicker in our fully-equipped kitchens and homes, with our laptops, our application-enabled phones, the cars lined outside our houses….then why are we so rushed? Why are we left with no time in spite of gadgets and appliances taking over banal tasks? What happened to those lazy afternoons spent doing nothing; those holidays with cousins rolling in the grass or star gazing; those evenings and Sundays spent bonding with neighbours and extended family? How did these neighbours, whom I referred to as chachas and buas, and who showered us with exceptional love, metamorphose into uncles and aunties? With lesser means and a lower dose of technology, we made time for everything and everyone. Now with technology claiming to make human labour redundant, why are we left with no time? What happened to that modest piece of machinery that kept us closer and more connected than we are today in this age of connectivity?

The Untold Story

Every book tells a story. But at the same time, the same book also has a story of its own to tell. 'The Heat and Dust project'  for instance, will always rest on my shelf as a reminder that I bought this out of wanderlust; lured by the synopsis, and secretly hoping to embark on a similar journey of eccentricity, like the couple in the book, who decided to travel the country on an unrealistic budget of Rs.500 a day. But more than that, it will remind me that I bought it using a Flipkart voucher (one of the many that Meher won in school for academic excellence). As I sat looking at the Flipkart screen and all the vouchers, partly with pride at her achievements, and partly making a mental note of what I wanted for myself (selfish me), she noticed me; and the kind-hearted princess that she is, handed over two to me, saying she was through with her list and that I could redeem them for whatever I wanted. So I bought this book and a hair-dryer :), from my 13 year old’s prize-money!

One day, when I'm gone, if someone finds this book somewhere, whether in a torn condition, or in a state intact, whether in a public library or at a second-hand book dealer's, he would validate, that every book, has in fact, more than a story to tell…….

The Couch Potato

This poem is for every couch potato in the world, who chooses dormancy and  the insubstantial over the extraordinary gift of a spirited life. 

He plops himself on the sofa,

like a dysfunctional car in the garage;

with his bowl of chips,

the size of a crater on the moon.

He sits there from dawn to dusk,

like a building that has been there forever,

like an immovable boulder,

like old, unused furniture lying in the attic.

He is a rusting piece of machinery,

a stubborn lid on a jar,

lovers’ names scribbled on a monument,

a dusty corner in the house,

a goal-post in a soccer field,

 a foot path on a busy road,

an old, unswept, crumbly wagon,

 stationed on a railway yard,

 a piece of barren land.

He remains unaffected by the bustle around,

like a holy saint in meditation;

but people around him squirm and squiggle,

fidgeting like souls unable to rest in peace,

vexed at his indifference and aloofness,

that are as exasperating as an ink blotch

on a crispy, new, white shirt.

An Epiphany

The month of April is rarely ever kind. It heralds an end of spring and a beginning of the harsh summer season.

One such April afternoon, I was sitting comfortably inside one of the rooms at the British Council, totally shielded from the crude swelter, and in complete oblivion of the hustle-bustle of the busy Connaught Place.  I looked out the window and for the first time, I noticed what had missed my eye in so many days- a wide, open courtyard with a small fountain in the centre.  Kalpita noticed me peering out and said, “That’s Charbagh. You all must go and explore the place today.”

 “Wonder why she is asking us to check out a courtyard in this sweltering heat?” I thought to myself.

We all went down nevertheless.

What I saw was a huge open area, surrounded by the red and black stone walls of the Council. It was an empty courtyard, with a small, square body of water right in the centre. It was probably a fountain that was not working at that moment. I instantly became aware of the change in my surroundings. I heard the cooing of pigeons and a faint sound of the heavy traffic on the other side of the wall. The thick walls of the building were perhaps designed to keep too much noise at bay.

I looked around. “Oh wow! Buddha!” I heard Ananya exclaim and I followed the direction of her eyes. There, from the wall on our left, it stared back at us- a colossal face. The oval-shaped face was carved out on a square, stone wall, taller than even the boundary wall of the Council.

It wasn’t Buddha. The face had a large pair of eyes, an over-sized nose, and big, wide lips. Its eyes were closed. What was staring back at us were not the eyes, I realized; it was the sheer size of the face that was, and it left us dwarfed in its presence. I wanted to feel the face now with my fingers. I went closer. Oh what was that? Next to the face, on the grey stone wall, I noticed more ovals jutting out that had a hand, a nose, lips, eyes and ears sculpted on them.

I was engrossed looking at the stone structure when I suddenly smelt food. It was 1.30pm. I sighed. May be I was just too hungry, but as I turned around, I saw students sitting there and eating. I heard the cling-clang of their forks and spoons and happy sounds of their conversations, and  was instantly taken back to my college days. There was a lone guy at a distance, working on his laptop.

As I looked around, taking in all the sounds and mentally absorbing what I saw and felt, everything suddenly started making sense. The heat was biting my bare arms and feet, like a sword slicing through my wounds, but the realization that had dawned was far too overpowering to let the heat exasperate me. I now knew why Kalpita had thought it would be interesting for us to see the place. The 'Charbagh' had awakened my senses and brought me in touch with the world beyond the closed confines of comfort. It reminded me that the calmness I had experienced inside the building was momentary; and while I was there, unmindful of the happenings outside, the world went on as usual…the birds did not stop flying or chirping, the people went about their daily tasks, the hundreds of ACs in the towering buildings that I could see, worked hard to bring respite to the people inside as   business went on as usual in every corner of the city.

The ‘Charbagh’ left me more mindful of things and activities that happen around. It of course left me disappointed for one reason though.  When the most predictable, four-garden (char bagh) definition failed as there weren’t any, I was anticipating it to be a haven for smokers; some of them puffing away the ‘Charminar’ brand, lending the place its name, but I unfortunately did not spot a single one!!

Kabaadiwala

Every Saturday and Sunday morning,

When I have decided to sleep late,

It’s his loud call that has woken me from my slumber,

Just one word, over and over, standing in the back lane.

He has decided to make his living,

From all the discarded junk in your house and in mine,

He is the 'kabaadiwala'  bhaiya,

Oh, I have loads to give him fine!

I call him upstairs…

Like every month, we begin to bargain,

He comes up from 8 for a kg of newspapers to 10,

I laugh at myself for having to go through the ritual again.

As he piles the newspapers in his sack,

I wonder where his ‘taraazu’ is today,

And then I see him dig into his pocket,

Flashing a spring balance instead to weigh!

Now some useless iron stuff that I don’t need,

Two irreparable chairs, a broken light,

Just all that I don’t need is what he needs,

And finally, good-bye beer bottles from last night!

He pays for what I felt was good riddance,

Then walks off quietly,

And I hear him again, loud and clear….

Same word, same tone, same pitch, same task…

Amidst piles of our waste, he spends each day,

I still catch him smile,

He mentions his family is in the village,

The high rental in the city is not worth the while.

 I ask him if he likes what he does,

I ask him how content is he,

“Didi, I barely can feed my family of four,

But happy is what I have decided to be!”

And then it’s the weekend again,

When my sole aim is to sleep late,

" कबाड़ी.... कबाड़ी......"   his voice resonates,

Just the same word over…the word that’s become this man’s fate!