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Tring tring…

Back in those days

when telephones were dearer

and smartphones didn’t exist,

I was always curious

about who might be on the phone line.

So I used to rush

to pick up the call

before anyone else in the house did.

There were days

I was told not to answer

until the elders reached it first.

Parents had super priority.

Communication wasn’t cheap,

and everyone preferred

short and sweet conversations

rather than getting tangled

with a child asking,

“Can you hold for my parents?”

Even holding meant more cost.

Whenever I got the chance,

I loved listening.

“Oh, how are you doing?”

“Is everything fine?”

And deep down,

I could sense their desperation

to speak to my dad or mom.

Sometimes my parents’ faces

would glow lightly after the call.

Sometimes gloomy,

like a cloud-locked sky.

Good news and bad news

always travelled through those wires.

Sometimes you could even hear

voices from different lines,

the secrets neighbours were hiding.

When the wires mingled,

I listened like a tiny spy.

If nothing interesting was happening,

I would quietly put the phone down.

Still, it was a beautiful way

to pass time.

My parents kept

the dial-pad phone locked in their room

so I wouldn’t randomly call everyone

and hike the bills.

I was only allowed

to receive calls

on the off-button phone.

Incoming only.

No outgoing.

But I knew the secret trick

of dialling anyway.

My parents would always wonder

how the bills stayed the same.

Me and my bestie

used to talk for hours,

about girls, sports,

and my secret obsession

with talking to classmate girls.

Sometimes when their parents

picked up the phone,

trouble would arrive instantly.

But somehow,

I always found a way out.

Those beautiful rebellious days…

Telephones are etched

deep in my memory,

not merely as objects

but as little ringing reminders

that connection is everything.