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 My fruit vendor kept me waiting on the pavement for a full five minutes yesterday. He was talking on his ‘mobile.’ I spent the time thinking of the 70's, when a household either possessed a telephone or didn’t (now, not to have a phone is synonymous with existence along poverty lines). Those who didn’t, passed on their neighbours’ numbers (if co-operative) to friends and family. They would make calls too on this number, very often on payment basis. Paying for the call prevented embarrassing situations. Moreover, it automatically sanctioned the use of the neighbour’s telephone without any ‘delicate’ feelings.
Thus, while the ‘host’ family went about its normal work, they would often be treated to the voice of Shanta Mami from next door, discussing a matrimonial alliance for her daughter on their instrument. Full marks to the average Indian for never grudging this intrusion. In fact, the only problem would perhaps be to pretend indifference, whilst inside fluttered a deep curiosity to know more about the affair. If mutual relations were conducive, very likely that they would be given details by Shanta Mami herself, the matter discussed and opinions given.
When Mr. Sathyakaman, father of my friend Chitkala was re-transferred to Chennai, they occupied the flat facing ours, and our telephone was elected as the interim means of communication. Several times a day, I would startle passers-by when I gave a full throated shout, beckoning the family to come to the instrument. Then, the concerned family member would emerge, wending his or her way down their apartment, up mine through the narrow lane that separated the two while the caller patiently waited at the other end. If Chitkala’s mother Uma Mami came, then this was an occasion for a little chat with my mother. There would follow one of those little sessions for which no housewife is too busy - a mild exchange of pleasantries, a discussion of the day’s menu in the respective households and then a bit of gossip. Didn’t I read somewhere that gossip is good for blood pressure?
 In that period, calls were unmetered. This is something I miss sorely now. We dictated notes, recited pages of Inorganic Chemistry and of course, conducted in-depth analyses of classmates - all for the price of a mere phone call. I have distinct memories of changing from one tingling ear to its counterpart while my cousin, re-entering the house after an errand ejaculated with a sort of horrified wonder: Is that the same call you were on when I left? Today, laconism is a perfected art.
An indication perhaps that free speech exists no more?
Physically too, the telephone instrument has undergone radical changes. When I see the sleek exteriors of today’s machines, I automatically think of the unwieldy black contraption that adorned my grand-father’s hall and am transported to the bygone days. Oh, what tales of family history that grand old instrument could narrate!
The numbers were on a round dial that inevitably got stuck, so that it had to be forced back with the fingers to return to its normal state. A coloured telephone, or one with ‘push buttons’ was a luxury only seen in the movies. But then, everything was simple those days. Even the numbers were in 5 digits, the Mylapore exchange beginning with a ‘7’, my friend in Nungambakkam having a phone number with an ‘8’.
The only difficult thing though, was managing to get a phone installed. This was an achievement that took normally five years after applying and when accomplished, became a sort of event to be celebrated. Today, the problem is reversed. Which company do we choose? Helplessly we stare at all the pamphlets in our hand, delivered, courtesy the smart, young sales executive of the respective companies. And what to say of the facilities provided on the instruments! Mind boggling is the only way to describe them.
 My cordless telephone, gifted to me by a nephew has an answering machine with a male voice in American accent announcing that we are not at home. It outraged my intensely Indian psyche to think that an anonymous American stranger should do duty for us in our absence.
I hence pulled out the ‘User’s Manual’ to find out how to tape my own message. So lost was I in the maze of multi-lingual instructions and forbidding looking diagrams, that I put the booklet away at the very bottom of my cupboard. (There is something very patronizing about a ‘User’s Manual’. Especially if you are the non-technical type like me. It seems to leer at you through its pages, gleefully springing one unintelligible figure after the other and, while you are in the sorry plight of guessing where knob ‘A’ is on your machine, making you feel about as brainy as a peahen.)
Anyway, the Stars and Stripes are here to stay with my phone and we now get many interested callers wanting to know if we have foreign guests at home.
The mobile phone certainly caused a revolution. When I bought myself an instrument in the year 2000, it was my greatest pride. I would look affectionately at the bulky ‘Ericsson’ sheathed in protective black leather, its ariel jutting out. So fascinating was the prospect of talking anywhere, anytime, that I conveniently forgot about call charges and ended up with a huge hole in my pocket. In those days, not only were the rates astronomical, but both incoming and outgoing calls had to be paid for. So much so, that one hesitated to give one’s number to all and sundry.
Today, the cell phone has become so common place that it is a matter of humiliation not to have one. As for me, I have refused the trend of ‘small is beautiful’. I stick to my old instrument, huge, awkward - the very same piece which had been viewed as a novelty just three years ago is now earning me laughs, and earnest entreaties to be more civilized.
That then, is the telephone saga. Channels of communication have never had it so good.
Just one question though, as I finally put the apples in the bag:
In this age of TV serials, nuclear families and America-settled children, where is communication in the first place?
Varalakshmi Anandkumar
E mail address: keysigns@yahoo.com
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