Landlines

I could dial my own number real fast.

I'd sometimes simply punch numbers for a finger workout.

In innocent times.

They had these nice, big buttons.

Like those massive calculators marwari banyas use in their shops.

And the thrill of pressing the speaker button,

and allowing it to ring until someone answered.

Not to forget the handle-like feel that made us talk long hours.

Can't blame adolescence for everything now, can we?

I love it when proprietors still dial out of them from their air-cooled cabins,

retreiving their number from the cellphone.

Feels like karma is giving it back to that supersmart device

that is making us do everything now, but talk.

I must confess, I am not a phone guy.

Phony, maybe.

But in the days of the corded Beetels,

I was a different fish.

We were a gang of three.

9th grade onwards.

We'd speak everyday.

And the hours would peak before exams.

The sillier the exam, the longer we'd speak.

And procrastinate.

To the point that the paper would be barely a few hours away.

I must confess, we did gossip.

Occasionally.

But it was also the time when we spoke about ripe bosoms,

and created our list of hot girls, from every division.

Such profound conversations don't happen over status updates.

Landlines, they were robust little things.

The thrill of slamming it down in a fit of anger.

Blank calls, and speculating its endless possibilities.

But mostly, the anticipation.

I love technology and the access.

But sometimes, on nights like these, I miss the anticipation.

And a phone, without the smart.