Column

It is a nice feeling when, in times of grief, friends rally round to help in any way they can. Though the solicitousness can sometimes grate, well-meaning advice, counselling and practical suggestions can go a long way in alleviating the misery. Ask me — I have just been through just such an experience.

Last week, something that had until now happened only to others, happened to me — my cell phone stopped working. This, as readers will understand, is nothing short of a tragedy. Soon after the phone packs up, one goes through the five stages of grief — Denial (this isn’t happening to me!); Anger (why is this happening to me?); Bargaining (I promise I’ll be a better person if...); Depression (I don’t care anymore); Acceptance (I’m ready for whatever comes)

One tries every method to get it up and running, including wasting precious time on the telephone while a sleepy call centre employee finds out the nearest repair centre, trudging there, being told firmly that the phone has no more life left and pleading for them to find a way to rescusicate it. If there was some divinity for mobile phones one would even propitiate it. But finally, the reality sinks in — this phone will never ring again.

Then the import of this horrifying truth dawns — not only will one remain unconnected with the world till a new phone is obtained, but all those numbers that were saved in the phone are gone forever. An important part of life has been wiped out, almost like those movies in which the hero loses his memory only to try and piece it back bit by bit.

Even as one frets about all those missed calls and messages — job offers, potential dates, a chance to win a free holiday to Mauritius — the humungous task of collecting all the numbers once again begins. That is where your friends step in. I sent off a message to my email list explaining what had happened and asking for the numbers to be resent. Instantly I began to get replies to soothe my bereavement — “You poor thing. I understand your tragedy, it happened to me once;” “Are you okay? Can we help?”; “This is calamitous.” It was touching even if somewhat funereal.

Some were practical, with a dash of admonishment: “You should always keep a back up;” “Oh dear, do you want me to send my son over to teach you how to store numbers in your computer?” “Remember the last time I reminded you to keep a CD of your numbers?” (I didn’t, but she got her point across any way.)

It made me think. The loss of information, especially in these times, can be debilitating, but why did everyone immediately respond as if the most calamitous event had occurred? On a scale of tragedies, this perhaps rated 1 out of 100, but have we come to a pass where we have become so attached to our gadgets and gizmos that we cannot manage even a minute without them? After all, we did live without cell phones till a few years ago and it wasn’t so bad.

The cell phone is now an extension of ourselves, almost a limb; there are people who have it glued to their ears all the time and feel restless without it. It is not merely a device to connect to the world; it validates our identity and our importance in the world. How many contacts one has and whose numbers they are matters a lot; if those numbers are lost or become inaccessible for some reason, it reduces one’s relative value. If your car breaks down, you can take a cab, if your computer crashes you can get a technician to restore your hard disk, but when the cell phone is lost or stops functioning, it is a disaster beyond compare because you then start from scratch and who knows some of those numbers may never come back in your grasp.

The next part of the saga is equally illuminating. After I announced that my phone was dead and I would have to buy a new one, the suggestions began coming in fast and thick. Everyone had an opinion — some voted for the Blackberry (you are always in touch), others plumped for the iPhone (lovely design) and still others rooted for the latest in the Nokia N series (iPhone is way too common, you’ve got to be different.) It became a veritable seminar and was almost as if everyone was getting their own vicarious thrills at the idea of someone buying a new phone. Budgets were discussed and when I proposed a modest figure, there were hoots of laughter: “For that you will get a cheap camera and the phone will have just no style.” The idea was to get a phone that made and received calls, I ventured; this was shot down by technophiles who made it clear that unless I had a hugely expensive cell phone with all the bells and whistles, a killer design and brand value, there was really no point in having a phone at all. The mobile phone is no longer a communications device — it is a fashion accessory, a multi-tasking gadget (how long before it can also make toast?) and a measure of your status in society.

Indians survived the bad old days of MTNL monopolies, when there was a waitlist of lakhs for a land phone line, the phones regularly went dead for days and we were all at the mercy of supercilious linesmen who made us grovel. We kept our numbers in a tattered diary or in our minds; now, with phones for the asking and the country adding millions of new connections every year, our world falls apart when a cellphone packs up. That is progress, I suppose.