<p>On a recent visit abroad I avoided using the phone to save on roaming charges.<br /><br /></p>.<p>On a visit from the US three years ago, my nephew was using an IPhone. I made admiring comments about the gadget. ‘Can I gift it to you chacha Ji?’ he offered the next day. My avuncular pride made me decline. When even his entreaty that I should move with the times failed, he said, ‘Actually, on return to the US, I will migrate to a newer version and this will be thrown away.’ I gave in to this compelling logic. <br /><br />I paid a negotiated-down price of Rs 3,200 for getting it ‘opened’ to the Indian operating system; the ‘jail break’ as the technician said. As time passed I got used to its convenience. Two years later, a neighbour’s son volunteered to sync it with my computer. In the process the phone got locked again. I was dreading the huge expenditure when he told me to take it to the Gafaar market in Karol Bagh, where they charge much less. I found this to be a wonderful place where Indian IT is in full flow. Roadside kiosks in hundreds are always crowded with customers. My problem was solved. I also became acquainted with Surinder Singh. <br /><br />Some months later the neighbour once again offered to update my phone. This time all the contact numbers were lost; only names remained. When close acquaintances called and I enquired who it was, some were visibly put off. Even Surinder could not retrieve the numbers as my IPhone 3G does not have a link with ‘cloud’, which automatically stores all Apple data. I tried recreating the contacts slowly; a painful exercise. On a recent visit abroad I avoided using the phone to save on exorbitant roaming charges. When we landed back I could receive calls and exchange messages, but could not call out. Frustrated, I went back to my friend in Gafaar market. <br /><br />Surinder, like thousands other Indian young, self-acquired his technical knowhow. Since my last visit he has rented his own kiosk and has employed three assistants. The place is really tiny; if a six-foot tall man were to sleep there, he could fit in only diagonally, if then. I sat by him on a stool as he worked. He first stored my data in his computer. <br /><br />Conversationally, he swore by the IPhone, though I wonder if I can empirically share his enthusiasm. ‘I had bought a rival some months back,’ he told me ‘but it started giving problem from day one.’ Then he shared its technical secret.<br /><br /> ‘Whenever on full charge, the phone shuts down. Once while charging it in the train I slept off. When I awoke the phone was lifeless.’ Perhaps observing a concerned look on my face he explained. ‘I borrowed a hairpin from a lady traveller and short-circuited to reduce charge in the battery. Thereafter it worked balle balle.’ Long live Indian jugaad; Late Steve Jobs would have saluted Surinder.<br /></p>
<p>On a recent visit abroad I avoided using the phone to save on roaming charges.<br /><br /></p>.<p>On a visit from the US three years ago, my nephew was using an IPhone. I made admiring comments about the gadget. ‘Can I gift it to you chacha Ji?’ he offered the next day. My avuncular pride made me decline. When even his entreaty that I should move with the times failed, he said, ‘Actually, on return to the US, I will migrate to a newer version and this will be thrown away.’ I gave in to this compelling logic. <br /><br />I paid a negotiated-down price of Rs 3,200 for getting it ‘opened’ to the Indian operating system; the ‘jail break’ as the technician said. As time passed I got used to its convenience. Two years later, a neighbour’s son volunteered to sync it with my computer. In the process the phone got locked again. I was dreading the huge expenditure when he told me to take it to the Gafaar market in Karol Bagh, where they charge much less. I found this to be a wonderful place where Indian IT is in full flow. Roadside kiosks in hundreds are always crowded with customers. My problem was solved. I also became acquainted with Surinder Singh. <br /><br />Some months later the neighbour once again offered to update my phone. This time all the contact numbers were lost; only names remained. When close acquaintances called and I enquired who it was, some were visibly put off. Even Surinder could not retrieve the numbers as my IPhone 3G does not have a link with ‘cloud’, which automatically stores all Apple data. I tried recreating the contacts slowly; a painful exercise. On a recent visit abroad I avoided using the phone to save on exorbitant roaming charges. When we landed back I could receive calls and exchange messages, but could not call out. Frustrated, I went back to my friend in Gafaar market. <br /><br />Surinder, like thousands other Indian young, self-acquired his technical knowhow. Since my last visit he has rented his own kiosk and has employed three assistants. The place is really tiny; if a six-foot tall man were to sleep there, he could fit in only diagonally, if then. I sat by him on a stool as he worked. He first stored my data in his computer. <br /><br />Conversationally, he swore by the IPhone, though I wonder if I can empirically share his enthusiasm. ‘I had bought a rival some months back,’ he told me ‘but it started giving problem from day one.’ Then he shared its technical secret.<br /><br /> ‘Whenever on full charge, the phone shuts down. Once while charging it in the train I slept off. When I awoke the phone was lifeless.’ Perhaps observing a concerned look on my face he explained. ‘I borrowed a hairpin from a lady traveller and short-circuited to reduce charge in the battery. Thereafter it worked balle balle.’ Long live Indian jugaad; Late Steve Jobs would have saluted Surinder.<br /></p>
