There was a time when a telephone was not as ubiquitous and affordable as it is now. Back then, getting a landline connection was a tardy process involving some paperwork. It took weeks, months or even years to get the phone connection approved unless you were an official entitled to one. Even then, getting a chosen phone number was pure luck.
Whether it was the installation of a phone or its repair, the man from the “exchange” (as it was called then) arrived on a bicycle always in the afternoon. He would arrive with a couple of telephones and a bunch of wires and after a brief reconnaissance of the premises, the surroundings and the house, he would talk to the household. Once a slot for the telephone was agreed to, he would then begin the installation work that usually lasted nearly an hour.
The installation work would be accompanied by small talk. As the rapport increased, the pace of installation went up. Indications that the tasks had been accomplished arrived when the man dialled a mysterious number, uttered something, and disconnected the call. Within seconds, the house would hear the first ring of the call back from the telephone exchange. Someone from the house would be also asked to test the quality of the service. A couple of test calls accompanied by some code numbers would signal the end of the task. A cup of buttermilk or tea would be served to the man from the “exchange”.
In those days, the telephone number was only shared with a few. As strict instructions were issued not to use it in the absence of my father, the telephone would be silent throughout. On other days, my father would make some official calls in the morning and evening and the entire house would remain silent. Trunk calls and STD calls were expensive, and any such calls received were officially serious ones or simply a relative conveying urgent good or bad news.
After a few months, the telephone started making its impact beyond our house, and a few neighbours got curious about the device. It was the days of the Gulf boom and every family had someone working in West Asia. So, the mundane Fridays metamorphosed into days of incoming “foreign” calls, when neighbours spend anxious moments in our drawing room awaiting the call from their sons or sons-in-law. When the phone call was between newly weds, the entire house withdrew from the drawing room to allow them some privacy.
Most of these calls were quick calls, and the neighbours revealed bits and pieces of information as a show of gratitude for using the telephone. Our social networking received a boost with the installation of the telephone, and our grandmother was at the forefront of these interactions. People told us stories, and we listened. We started to share the happiness, troubles and grief of quite a few of our neighbours.
At a slow pace, we started responding to emergencies after the required permission from parents. The telephone led us to assist a neighbour who needed an ambulance by looking up the directory (it had pages of different colours) and then calling the nearest hospital. In another instance, we called the State transport depot to report a bus breakdown in the vicinity. As a child, my fascination with the good old telephone’s ringtone never ceased.
Frustration crept in when the service broke down. Strong winds, heavy rain and accidents were the usual culprits. Everything was quiet when the telephone remained dead. At times, it took days for the service to resume. Conspiracy theories did fly around the house, but received wisdom was that technology was like that.
In those days, nobody cursed the telephone and it was never a burden. There was never any thought of viciousness, though there were those rare prank calls. When the phone rang, there were sweet emotions. The ringing was never inopportune and the ringtones never made us anxious.
And the memories of our first telephone and the first telephone number remain special even now!
