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…….