Yesterday the General Manager of the Delhi Telephones, Mr. P.C. Jauhri, offered a gift to the citizens of the capital (Statesman, 20th May). "A telephone for the asking", he announced grandly to the wonder and amazement of the long suffering Delhiwallas, many of whom have gone gray waiting for his gift from the Gods in Dak-Tar Rhavan. I can picture the queues, the excitement, the happy beaming faces that come tripping lightly out of Mr. Jauhri's office clutching their precious new toys.
But there is a small catch in this. And Mr. Jauhri has forgotten to mention it. Not that one can accuse him of dissimulation. Only forgetfulness. And it is this. What you are being offered is not a toy but a torture. The telephone will indeed be given as promised. It will also work after a fashion. When you dial you will even get a number. But it need not be the number you dial. That is not part of the contract. Under the Telegraph Act of 1879, Mr. Jauhri's day is done when you get a ring at some number at the end of the line. In fact the new amendment introduced by Parliament in 1973 specifically requires the diligent Mr. Jauhri to mix the numbers a bit for the entertainment of the citizens of the Republic. After all, there is no fun in the happening of the expected. But you are bound to think it fun if every time you ring your grandmother in Lodi Gardens you hear the mellifluous voice of the timber merchant in Paharganj.
Since you are entitled to the many possibilities and pleasures of a wrong number, so is every other citizen of the Republic. And Mr. Jauhri does not discriminate in the distribution of his favours. After the emergency he is particularly careful that the gift from the Department should be distributed with an even hand. No favours, no favourites is his motto. And therefore, don't be surprised if the telephone rings just when you have dozed away into the bliss of your daily afternoon siesta. Who should it be but your Paharganj friend asking languorously for his girl friend Lila Bai in Shakti Nagar. If you are annoyed at the time he thinks of such things, put the thought aside. Be kind and understanding. Each man to his own ways after all. Wish him well in fact. For that is what this whole idea is about to put every citizen in friendly touch with his fellow. Loss of temper on such occasions defeats the very purpose of the Act. Complaining to Mr. Jauhri only betrays your ignorance of the whole policy which he is trying so diligently to carry out. It is churlish to complain when you should really be complimenting them on a job well done. The only right you have is to ask for another of the numerous games the Department has thoughtfully devised for your entertainment. For example, I know of some odd types – university dons, between you and me who demand that while their telephone should ring at all odd hours of the day, when they gift it no sound should come out. They find it soothing and helpful in their research work. Odd if you ask me, but the request is met regularly.
Not everyone, however, takes this idea in the spirit in which it is meant. The capital is unfortunately full of tense nervous people who fail to see the fun and humour in this whole idea. Unnecessarily they work themselves up over what they allege is the failure of the telephone services. The lines hum with the shrill cries of distraught men and women. And the asylums around the capital are full of people suffering from an unknown mental disease which a leading psychiatrist has tentatively labelled telephonomania. The patients go around either shouting, "Hullo, hullo, am I speaking to Auntie Doreen? No, who then? Paharganj, what Paharganj? Lila Devi? Never heard of her", etc., or picking up imaginary telephones pulling them from their sockets and hurling them in all directions. While doctors are still working out the origins of this mysterious disease, most mental hospitals have thoughtfully provided toy plastic telephones for their patients to kick and hurl about. This is said to cool them down a bit and put them on the way to recovery. So rapid has been the rise in the number of patients that the Health Ministry is putting up a special corrective institute at Faridabad. It will have ten thousand plastic telephones and P&T officers in mock offices to hear the imaginary complaints of the patients. Whether any one of these will impersonate Mr. Jauhri, it is not yet settled. All doctors are not agreed on the effect this will have. Will it calm the sick, or enrage them?
And so Delhi is full of two types of people where telephones are concerned. The ignorant who often term the Delhi Telephone Service the Daily Torture Service, and the cognosenti who know it as the most fun loving organization there is. I fault the indefatigable Mr. Jauhri only on the one count. If only he would get over his modesty and publicise the true nature and purpose of the service, there would be less pressure on the already extended hospitals of the capital. And for you, the citizen, all I say is this, "If you ask for a telephone, then you are truly asking for it."
This is an unpublished article.
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