Sonny boy, all of seventeen, recently offered to buy me a cellular phone with his first salary a few years down the line. There was a wicked glint in his eye and he laughed as he promised… knowing full well how much I detest the telephone. I tell him in no uncertain terms that I’d probably smash it to bits (and grind it underfoot for good measure) on the very first day… or I’d end up a raving lunatic!

I can trace my aversion to the sound of the ringing telephone back to my days as a management trainee in a hotel. I was rotated on the 9-6 shift through the various departments, of which the front desk was one. The mornings would be just hunky dory. The trouble would invariably begin when my colleague on the 7-4 shift, as well as the manager, would disappear for their lunch breaks at 1 pm. The lady on the 2-8 shift wouldn’t have put in an appearance yet.

A typical scenario: All alone and the lobby looked so peaceful… Suddenly the calm is shattered by – you guessed it – the old fashioned rotary dial telephone shrilling loudly. I’d pick up – only to get a earful about another department’s deficient service from an irate guest. I’d be trying to get a word in edgeways when the second telephone right next to the first one would begin to ring insistently. Accomplishing the next-to-impossible task of putting Mr. Irate on hold, I’d answer #2, and go through the whole rigamarole again (this time: “Why do you people take so long to pick up…?!”). I’d suddenly become aware that a guest had materialized, seemingly out of thin air, and was tapping the counter impatiently. I recognize the guest, paste what I hope is a welcoming smile on my face, and lean over to try and retrieve his room keys from the slot. After a minute of acrobatic contortions that would put Houdini to shame, I notice the look of unalloyed shock on the guest’s face – as I almost lose my balance – and give up. I put down the receiver, do a strange sideways shuffle, retrieve and hand over the keys in record time. I take a step towards the two receivers – when the third one rings. Unfortunately, it’s at the other end of the counter, about 10 feet away from the first two… I’m able to deal with it in ten seconds flat and am hurrying back to #1 and #2 when yet another guest pops up. “Just my luck!” I groan inwardly while a polite smile stretches my orbicularis oris muscles. I know from experience that the chap, out of boredom or love (of his own voice) or whatever, just adores talking. He launches into one of his stories as I try to inch toward the telephones. He seems oblivious to my travails, so I excuse myself and pick up #1 – only to be lambasted once again… I juggle the receiver to my left ear and pick up #2. Just then #3 rings again… and a large group of guests walks through the lobby doors towards the counter…

So now you know why the sound of the ringing phone arouses the worst in me…

My son mesmerized, as is his entire generation, by mobile phone technology, has been pestering me and pleading with me – and when that failed – appealing to logic and reasoning to persuade me to buy one of those, those… thingummies! I certainly don’t fancy being on call 24/7, at the mercy of cellular phone service providers, insurance agents, banks and the like, invading my privacy and monopolizing large chunks of my time, both of which I value and treasure. Sonny tells me I can switch off the danged thing, but still… no thanks!

© Sosha Srinivasan