When phones struck the right chord

With trembling, wrinkled hands, she held a marvel—my great-grandmother Sharadamma—cradling the “red beauty” in her palms. It was the first landline phone I had ever seen. If one were to personify it, she was the centre of attraction. With ten rings adorning her round white necklace, she looked stunning—elegant in her own way.

Muttajji (great-grandmother) brought the receiver close to her ear, smiled, and said, “Nange enu kelsthailla, vayassu aytu” (I can’t hear anything; I am getting old). She touched the phone all over, like a child exploring a new toy. This moment was nearly three decades ago, in my mother’s ajji mane, a traditional house. Soon, the house itself came to be known as ‘phone mane’—the house with the phone.

For the entire lane, the phone mane became a landmark. Neighbours, neighbours’ neighbours, and even distant relatives would drop by to speak to their loved ones, at least once a fortnight. These calls were often followed by boxes of sweets celebrating the birth of a grandchild or by generous helpings of kurk thindis (crispy savouries). At times, we became part of someone’s grief too—sharing tears over the loss of a dear one.

Landline phones transformed lives by connecting hearts. Mobile phones did even more. From the sturdy Nokia 1100 to sleek touchscreens that enable video calls, technology has evolved rapidly. But not everyone has kept pace. One such person was our domestic help, Susheelamma.

She had a charming way of remembering people—every household was identified by an emoji. I discovered this when she asked me to save my number on her phone with one. Over ten years of working in our home, she became family. Her stories, her laughter, and her morning presence were a comfort. She matched my mother-in-law’s conversations with ease, and despite her frequent leaves, my mother-in-law eagerly awaited their daily chats.

Then, one day, Susheelamma didn’t show up. Days passed. We grew worried. Every attempt to call her was met with the same message: “Not reachable.” A week later, she returned our call. Her voice trembled as she told us that her father was terminally ill. She wanted to be with him in his final days.

I offered her one of my old touchscreen phones so she could video-call him. But the next day, she returned it, saying it was too difficult to manage and too fragile to keep safe. That evening, she came to say goodbye. She was leaving the city for good—to care for her father.

Before leaving, she said something that still echoes in my heart: “Touchscreens have replaced human touch and emotions. That’s why we see humanity slowly disappearing. Phones will be new every day—but a father is only one in life.” 

Now, every morning, when my little one wakes up and asks, “Susheelamma bandra?” (Has Susheelamma come?) I am reminded of her words—and the irreplaceable warmth of human connection.