The Landline
How this outdated piece of technology helped me mourn my grandmother
The Landline — a piece of technology that is as archaic as it is ubiquitous. In the age of seamless, unavoidable and endless connectivity, how does the humble landline compete? While in newer households, people don’t bother getting a landline, most joint families still find a need for them. The reason is simple — Our grandparents.
My Dadi, in particular, loved using the landline. Unlike the majority of us in the family, she had a fantastic memory. She loved remembering new numbers and recollecting them. Whenever she managed to remember a phone number without referring to her trusty address book, she beamed with joy. Often, when we remarked at her ability to recall hundreds of numbers, she would quietly mention that she was a maths topper in school. In a society where women get few chances to exercise intellectual abilities after their formal education, the simple act of remembering a phone number was my Dadi’s unseen act of rebellion.
We tried to wean Dadi off the landline. We got her a Nokia phone, a senior’s phone and even a smartphone. She never completely learnt how to use any of them. Towards the end, she did send us some voice notes and pictures on what’sapp. We were right then, when we thought she just didn’t try hard enough.
Only recently, I have begun thinking about why she stuck so strongly to her landline.
The landline is an annoying piece of technology. It’s loud, inefficient and invasive. It can ring when you’re taking a nap or when you’re in the middle of a lecture. But it’s symbolic of how society used to be. In large neighbourhoods, it was common to have a single shared phone. This way, everyone was in each other’s business — just the way we like it. Boyfriends had to pretend to be girls when parents happened to pick up the phone. Small talk had to be made before the phone reached the intended recipient. Spying on each other’s private conversations was most younger sibling’s chosen form of revenge. There is no silent mode, which allows you to sleep through the night. In emergency situations, the entire family is awakened in the middle of the night. In the end, while personal space and personal relationships blur, families are forced to interact more, only because of the lack of alternative options.
My Dadi grew up and grew older in crowded spaces. As soon as she married my Dada, they lived in a small flat with two of my Dada’s brothers and their families. Stories from their newly wed-days are unfathomable to me today. Stories of jealousy when someone would get sweets for their kids but not their cousins, of the entire building watching movies together in one tiny living room, of my father bringing the whole class home just to try her famous Pav-Bhaji. Where family trips meant at least one tempo traveller needed to be booked. When her own in-laws came along with my grandparents for their honeymoon. She often expressed annoyance at having to adjust such a large family’s needs when she was so young. I just got married this year, and I feel as if my family life could not be more different. There are days when I don’t see people living in the same house, because we have the luxury of space.
As India grew, so did my grandfather’s business. Brothers and children slowly moved out of the shared house, or even out of the country for newer opportunities. Soon, we lived in a house which was larger than my Dadi could have fathomed when she was a child. Every child wanted their own bedroom, so the house was expanded further. The wheels of time spare no one. The world modernised and my grandparents tried to keep up.
Often, we don’t realise the living change our grandparents experienced. From a time where writing letters was a luxury to a time where everyone can contact literally anyone else at any time. So they do cling onto older things. Just like my Dadi clung on to the landline.
My Dadi passed away almost three years ago. The empty room, dinner table-chair and cupboards still get to us sometimes. We miss her on the big days, and sometimes on the small days. But we’re startled into thinking of her whenever the landline rings.
It barely rings any more. We all have our own phones, and only old friends have the landline number. Whenever it used to ring, we would start yelling and asking Dadi to pick up the phone, because it would inevitably be for her. Today when it rings, we really don’t know what to do. It’s a small, untimely reminder that the lives we live today are only possible because of the people long gone.
