Arkotong Longkumer
For a long time I resisted Mobile Phones. For me, there was no lure, nor was there any excitement of owning one. I objected to the way Mobile Phones become such a nuisance in life. Every time a conversation starts, the ubiquitous ringing tone shatters the peaceful coexistence, the moment when you believed that no one could intrude upon the sharing of two voices. Now suddenly, the “voice” of mobility wants attention. Or, after a delightful film, when you hope to discuss the film with your mates over a pint of beer, the side glance becomes an all too familiar ritual, as they key in the fearful “turn silence off” on their Mobiles, waking up their electronic companion. The nagging feeling is that the Mobile refuses to be in hibernation. It does not have a lunch break, nor does it have a lying period, nor does it sleep. It escapes classification; it is with you 24/7.
When I was Mobile free, my life was easy to arrange. I would plan my entire week with my friends according to my itinerary and I would meet them at a prescribed time and place, without having to text them that I had arrived, or whether I was five minutes away, or whether I was standing on the right side of the road, and could see them on the other side. And I had no excuse to be late, neither did they. Their lateness would be punctuated with their usual excuse, “sorry, I forgot my Mobile”.
Being Mobile free afforded me a certain lifestyle that my friends did not have. I was not involved in any change of plans, or last minute hiccups, because people knew that I did not have that dreaded appendage. The only appendage I coveted, in whatever topsy-turvy way, was my Wok. Yes, that indomitable frying pan.
There is something a Wok offers which the Mobile does not. First, it does not have a voice. Second, you control the frying pan, how you sauté the vegetable does not depend on the voice on the “other” side. Third, you don’t have to charge it, or top it up with credit, you just rinse it with the fine public water supply. Finally, you don’t carry it around like you do a Mobile. Okay, okay, the last one is a little silly.
The pressure of owning finally became too much, I was completely helpless, circumstances provoked me to go to a store and buy one. First of all, I decided to make the long journey alone; bachelorhood, with my individuality and dirty couch, I knew, was all about gone. The only thing I lacked was a Priest to bless the Holy Matrimony. Like a wedding, my friends were all waiting at the reception with food, wine, and a loud grin on all their faces. I unveiled my bride, a Sagem from the blue race, with outmost indifference; and faced the usual just-got-married jokes: “Oh, where did you find her; she is going to give you hell, she will never leave you alone.” That dreaded losing-your-individuality joke erupted with the uncorking of a cheap red wine; we all laughed and toasted to the future.
Life has been good, I must say. I have become the butt of many a Mobile joke. I am no longer the Puritan hard-liner, the Savage Hero; now I am the loser, the unwilling mascot of the Mobile crowd. Now, I am required to be late, lost, and loved, just by texting. I am cute with a Mobile around my ears, or should I say, I have become one of the in-crowd. I am one of the select majority who can ask the question: “Is that a contract phone, or pay-as-you-go?” “Oh, give me a miss call once you reach my flat, or txt me wid da plans for da nite, G8. Ciao.” Suddenly, my English has become better, or should I say G8. I speak Moblish.
I must say, though, Mobiles have had some positive impact on my life now. I have better access to my friends, and a real plus is that I can connect easily with my work. I also have instant access to telephonic conversations wherever and whenever I please. However, new fears and greater dependency are created all the time. What if I lose my leg while walking, I must be able to call emergency services, or what if one friend decides to ditch me last minute, I can always call another. The need for community is only accentuated with the never-ending contact list. Should I call my General Practitioner, the plumber, or the pet store?
The real plus point is in parties when you exchange phone numbers by giving each other missed calls and then adding them to your contact list, getting only their first names, or Mobile names, like the Nocturnal Nighthawk, or the even better, Busy Betty. Of course, the real “miss” is that you fail to contact them (their real names are mostly forgotten).
Your social life seems busier as you look through that never-ending contact list, making life a little bit more pretentious. Or the reward when you turn off your Mobile, giving your contacts the impression that you are busy doing something worthwhile, a habit I can’t get out of. And I always love the rationale, “Did I miss you, I was busy, what’s up? Text me back.” It creates a make believe world of seeming to be busy even when one is not. The excesses of the world come to you, into the tiny screen. Life is made smaller like the tiny fairy lights in a Chinese take out or the glowing light of the taxi.
The fading glow of my Mobile requires attention. The taxi is here; I search the contact list for the Chinese take out. Chow.
