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.
