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Prisoner of THE CELL
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The young, of course, have taken to the mobile like cats to fish. And so it is difficult to understand somebody's reluctance for this hot stuff
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Feeling lost? Then it's time to whip out that cell phone hidden away in the pocket.
DO YOU see the ill-starred prisoner being dragged kicking and screaming towards a cell? That would be me. And the cell in question is a mobile phone. Yes, I have officially become a (SIM) card-carrying member of the 21st Century, and not even Dolly, when she was alive, could have looked more sheepish than I do right now.
Over the years, while our citizenry was blighted by an earache epidemic (hand perpetually clapped over ear), I remained uninfected. I looked on in consternation as the mason, the watchman, the gardener, the autodriver, all were engaged in a mad scramble to buy mobiles at throwaway prices. I looked on in disdain as my friends succumbed, one by one, to the wireless revolution. No wonder they're gloating now. To quote a message more cryptic than an SMS that flashed on my tiny screen: "Et tu?"
Before you call me a cell-out, though, let me set the record straight. Some achieve cell phones. Some have cell phones thrust upon them (I raise my hand at this point). I heard the death sentence one fine Wednesday: "Your mobile connection will arrive tomorrow." A young man dropped in to collect proofs of residence and identity and make my head swim by drawing up a table of payment schemes. Did I plan to receive more calls than I would make, or make more calls than I would receive? Did I want higher rental but lower rate, or vice versa? Would I make more calls from mobile to mobile or from mobile to landline? The ceremony ended with the Assigning of the Number, but I would have to prolong it with other rituals such as the Buying of the Instrument and the Choosing of the Ring Tone.
Day Two. Company calls to confirm number. Day Three. Man from company brings form to be filled. Day Four. Company calls to ask if I am A.K. Bordia. I start worrying whether A.K. Bordia's fat phone bills will be passed on to me. But I cannot waste time worrying, for I have much learning to do. How to switch the device off and on. How to hold the device: gingerly grip the lower end in a pincer movement, taking care that the fingers don't cover the antenna at the back. How to charge the battery of the device when the level is low. How to make, receive, and end calls. How to lock the keypad. Umm. That's about it.
So I'm cell-bound at last, but my instincts, like those of any inmate, have driven me to attempt a breakout. With success, I might add. I have achieved it in two simple ways: I keep my number a national secret, and I switch off the instrument as soon as I step out of the house. Before you give me a puzzled stare, let me explain how this can liberate you from enslavement. Like a fire extinguisher or a cyanide pill, the cell phone is to be used only in an emergency. Use it to get to others but don't let others get to you. Let your motto be: "Don't call me, I'll call you."
If I'm running late for an appointment with you, I'll call you. If I'm lost en route and need directions, I'll call you. If I'm stranded in the middle of the night and need rescuing, I'll call you. Get the picture? Yours is a passive role. Unless you are sitting next to me and want to make a call, in which case I'll gladly lend you my phone and not say stingily, "Sorry, the battery is low." What if the six people who have access to the national secret want to talk to me urgently? I will unbend so far as to follow up missed calls and messages, but only when I'm good and ready. Until then, it's "Do Not Disturb".
Sigh. Nobody understands my acute reluctance to be disturbed. Engrossed, as I usually am, in a whole spectrum of momentous activities — daydreaming, counselling a 22-year-old on her career, explaining to an 80-year-old how email works, analysing a friend's love life — I fume when a singing instrument interrupts my thoughts. You know the dog in the ad? The one that follows you everywhere? When most people look at it they see a fluffy, loveable companion but I see a fearsome hound. I see myself being tracked down, kept on a tight leash, wherever I am, 24 hours a day. Millions have voluntarily surrendered their freedom in this manner, pouncing on the phone the moment it rings, neglecting present companions to converse with absent ones, SMS-ing compulsively. I find it hilarious when a young couple sitting at a café table steadily SMS one another for 15 minutes, raising their heads occasionally to shoot a coy glance. Are they composing lines they are too bashful to utter out loud?
The young, of course, have taken to the mobile like cats to fish. A college teacher once chided a girl for receiving an SMS in class. The girl replied disarmingly: "Ma'am, it's actually a message for you." An absentee wanted the girl to tell the teacher that she'd be arriving 15 minutes late.
I wonder if, like her, I'll be comfortable with my cell some day. Or will the shadow of the prison forever hover over me?
(Send your feedback to ckmeena@rediffmail.com)
C.K. MEENA
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