This is a story of the ancient regime, from a bygone era, an era of planning (and scarcity). In these days of mobile phones, which hangs around the neck of every Tom, Dick and Harry or rather every Amar, Akbar and Anthony, the story of my telephone sounds unbelievable as in Ripley's 'Believe it or not'. In short, in those days having a telephone was a luxury. This is a story of my telephone and my neighbours.

One cannot choose one's parents, or for that matter, one's neighbours. Since neighbours are as inevitable as taxes, one has to live with them, if not live for them.

How nice it would be if neighbours, like children, are only seen and not heard, at least not in your phone. But then, the telephone is like a magnet. It attracts all your neighbours without telephones.

The ordeal started immediately after the installation. Within an hour, we received a call for an unknown -- that is unknown to me -- neighbour. When I was about to bang it down, my wife told me who the neighbour was and my son volunteered to call her. It is still a mystery to me as to who gave our number to this enterprising neighbour.

Suddenly, the whole neighbourhood became sunny and smiling. Unknown and little known people started smiling and talking to me. Everybody seemed to be eager to be friends with me.

One night at about 1 a.m., we were startled by the shrill ringing tone of our telephone. The call was from a maternity hospital. The doctor was pleased to inform us that our neighbour's daughter had given birth to a bonny boy. Could we please pass on the message to the old lady who lives on the ground floor of the next building?

After admitting her daughter to the maternity hospital, the good old lady had given our number to the hospital without informing us, leave alone getting our consent!

Then there was a starlet. We knew all her movements, thanks to our phone. We knew where she was shooting. She had many admirers who used to coo sweet nothings into her ears. She, of course, was a good friend of the family. How could we say 'no' to her even if it meant sending for her or calling out to her at all earthly or unearthly hours!

One of our neighbours invariably used to get long distance calls. The talk was confined to “kaisi halat hai?” and also about the daughter's marriage. We later came to know that the caller was working in the telephone exchange in the North.

Our landlady was in a class by herself. She still lived in the feudal age. She felt or almost made us feel that the phone belonged to her as well. If her son didn't turn up at the appointed hour, she would storm into our hall to ring up his neighbour's shop.

We had the time of our lives when her son got engaged. I distinctly remember when one of her daughters in Delhi rang up, all the family members talked to her congratulating each other on their achievement. For more than an hour they made themselves comfortable on our two sofas.

When I asked her about the water problem during one of her 'visits', she threatened to stop using our telephone, as if she was denying us a favour.

Wrong calls are part of the pleasure or pain of having a telephone. Sometimes they do bring some mirth or smiles to our hectic life. Once, when my wife answered the phone, the caller insisted on knowing 'who was speaking'. My wife told him that she was Indira Gandhi to which he said, 'Giri speaking here'! Once my wife received repeated calls asking whether it was Garlick (name of a company in the neighourhood), she said 'No, onion'. Both started laughing…

Enough is enough! I have come to the firm conclusion that the telephone is an instrument of discord. It makes you an unpaid telephone-operator-cum-messenger-boy. It sows seeds of suspicion, if not of hatred, between you and your neighbours.

This telephone saga has made me think seriously about starting a 'Society for the Prohibition of Telephones' since I have nothing to lose but (telephone) cord and discord. Till then I can take consolation in the fact 'There is one thing worse than having a telephone and that is, not having one' (with apologies to Oscar Wilde).