How I taught my grandmother to text. And other stories.

I recently bought a shiny new phone. It's a smart (ass) phone which I'm completely stuck onto these days. I log in and out of Facebook (so as not to seem completely jobless), I play Angry birds all day long (you really should check it out), I shoot arrows at humans who are tied with a noose and save (yes, save) them, I play tic-tac-toe for hours and also play around with my very cute and a little annoying pet ostrich called Joe.
So here I was, coming home after a long and exhausting fifteen hour day in college , with this new phone in my hand. I had assignments and submissions that were screaming for my attention. I sat at my desk. Deep breath. Looked around. Opened the first page. Wrote one whole line. Looked at my phone. No. Will write at least one assignment . Or maybe just find out what this friend is up to. Unlock. Messages. Type type type..type type type..giggle..smiley. Silence. Silence. Bing Bing. Vibrate. New message. Open message. Click click.. Smirk. Reply...Type Type Type..
" Nice way of passing the time na?" Oops. Mom? Nah. Grandmom. Just saved.
"Okay, No problem. If you don't mind, I'll just rest my legs here. So tired after today" She said.
"Sure" I replied easily, already in the middle of another message. I typed for a while. This one friend said that she got admission in a nice university abroad. Congratulations. Another friend texted saying a girl from my college passed away today while driving to college in a freak accident. Shudder. Sympathy. Silence. A reminder from a girl in my class. Money for Seniors' farewell due tomorrow. Another message . Unknown number. Ditch. New message. Rajnikant forward. No thank you. One new message....

Silent cough. I look around. I'd forgotten my grandmother was still in the room. I expected her to be fast asleep by then, but she was very much awake, wide eyed and excited. "Are you messaging on your mobile phone?" she asked. I said I was. She got up and went and opened her bag, looked for something in it, shuffled around some things in it and finally drew out a small Christmas stocking-ish purse from it. She placed it in front of me. I stared at it. She took out her cell phone from it . It was a simple LG mobile . Nothing fancy. Nothing new. She looked at it with pride and her cheeks turned red. She said " Can you teach me how to do that? Send messages?" She looked so cute, I thought, with her light pink Saree and her white hair tied carefully at the back. She held out her wrinkled hand , and in that nervy hand was the handset. Her eyes twinkled and shone . Hopeful and expecting eyes are such a wonder to look at. She looked slightly taken aback at herself for having actually asked me that. Man, you don't say no to people who look like that.
I took her hand , her phone and sat on my bed . I switched on the phone. I showed her the options. We had to wait until she went and found her glasses. After she found them, I took her to the menu. Call options..Alarm clock..Calculator..Phonebook..And finally. Messaging.

Now the thing is, this cute little thing called my grandmother is going away on a Europe Tour next month. Along with her cousin sister. I can almost see the photos clicked at the Eiffel Tower. Bright yellow Sarees, and white sport shoes. So anyway, she always answered calls on her phone and made calls from her phone. But that is all she ever did. Recently it occurred to her that it would be kind of cool if she could message us something like , "Hello, reached London safely". For which she needed to message . Which was why we were gathered there, that time.
I told her about the symbol of messaging. A big white envelope. I showed her the right button to accept and the left button to go back. Then came the lengthy process of explaining how to type a message. Deciding that the dictionary mode would be too much to handle, I decided to teach her the normal text. Non-t9. So here, c will come after pressing a thrice. Press the button the number of times in order of the letter. I showed her how to. I typed a message. She look impressed, and a little worried. I handed the phone to her. It took a while. She kept missing the right button so that the whole thing would just refuse to budge. There were certain moments where I saw she was not finding this easy or encouraging. In the end she finally got the letter writing , I was trying to explain. Now,she said, she needs to write all the procedure down so that she could revise. Okay. Pen and paper were provided. She sat with me and we went through everything again.. Menu-Options-Messaging-Type message-Text message-Type-Select-Select recipients-Add number-Select-Okay-Send.
She wrote everything down serially, drawing symbols and making notes wherever needed. Then she read what she had wrote and was satisfied to try it out now.
We never really see our education like this , do we? As a need? A necessity? To satisfy our curiosity? To take notes on our own and to revise them for our sake. To make sure that we know. WE keep up with the world. There is no need for her to learn how to do this, is there? But she had explained once, that if one isn't inquisitive enough then that should be the end of his growth. I tried to remember when was the last time i put everything I had into my work. To make myself feel happy. When was the last time you achieved a sense of accomplishment because you did something for yourself? Something that you probably didn't want to learn. Was too difficult to. But something you felt like you should do. I looked at her. Her tiny body hunched up and her brow wrinkled in concentration and hard work. Here was a winner.
I smiled and no longer tired, left the room for a glass of water. I took my phone along with me and just as i left the room, it beeped. New message.
"Hello, reached London safely." 

The red light.

We're having a technical event in my college.Which is a supreme excuse for all the students to get together, work a little, and enjoy a lot.On this very excuse, me and my friend went to buy some stuff cheap from the city's old market. This market is away from the heart of the city. It is crowded, with more people and vehicles on the road than they can handle, and full of activity.Whether its ten am in the morning or two in the afternoon. Which is when we went. Me and her. 
After checking off about seven-eight items on our list we asked this very pleasant uncle where we can find old tin cans. How many did we need? about fifty.Okay, no problem, we were told.Just take the first right,another right and you'll reach the old scrapyard.Silence. Actually,said he, I wouldn't exactly say its the safest place for you two. 

Now that was confusing,but desperate measures call for desperate action, so we went anyway. We found the shop (again, a very nice uncle helped us there) and with thirty tin cans in our hands and content blooming in our minds..we turned to find the way back to our parked car. Now meaning  no disrespect to any kind of area in my "laadki" city, it seemed to us that every small crooked lane, every single old building and every single shop (hardware , mostly) looked exactly alike. So my friend came up with the bright idea of hiring a rickshaw to our car, as we couldn't find it anyway, and by the looks of it, weren't going to any time soon.As we loaded ourselves and our humongous pile of junk into the rickshaw and gave him very questionable directions, we were off.
My friend was fidgety from the start. Something about the streets and the people made her uncomfortable.I , however, was having fun.The place is truly amazing.Its startling how much space is being used here.Every inch of the city was used up for either business or..err..pleasure?
The thing is we missed a turn.Which did not make my friend any calmer.So our rickshaw uncle (not nice) assured us not to worry. We;ll just take a turn in here.This left. Thats the one.
Left we went. 
She said" Apna naseeb hi kharab hain , do you want something cold to drin....."

Open. flickriver.com 

In one second, my mind went numbingly blank.Its like i was transported to a different world.The kind of world we get to see on screen. Or read in those  very descriptive books. Someone was holding my hand. Shaking it. Panic.
It was my friend. Her face was white and her hands grabbing onto my faded kurta, cold.I wanted to see her terrified expression or mine reflecting on her face.
But i was too caught up.
There they were. Broad daylight. 
Its like this. The lane has a hundred tiny wada-like places.Which have some more windows and lots of doors.At every single door,window they were there. Pink.Red. Silver. Golden. Pink. Red. Green. Just flashes we caught at first. But the crowd ( oh yes did i mention, very crowded) slowed down our rickshaw. 
They were heavily dressed for a hot summer day. With fake brands embossing their ( otherwise naked) bodies. Tight black skirts, ending well before their thighs. heavy gold jewelery.And the Pink Lipstick.
Not just that though. Their heavily made up eyes, scanning the crowd. Filtering people who're there to browse and potential customers.Leaning against the doors or each other smoking, laughing, talking,yelling , shouting and passing the look.Their clothes too tight for their bodies, and vice versa.
They came in all shapes, sizes, ages, colors, and costs. On careful observation, you could tell, the important ones from the newbies. 
The lane was filled with people. It was so crowded that there were people walking exactly next to our rickshaw. shoulders and body brushing-wala crowd.
A movie started playing in my head. A tall strange man. Approaches a house. The other house owners try to entice him to look at themselves. He points to one house and enters.Its 43 degrees outside. Hot and sticky. Scorching heat. Two pm in this heated afternoon. The room is small and hot. No ventilation. Dirty. One small bed. On the floor. The man and woman are in for about twenty minutes. After which he zips up and leaves. Out of that impersonal world to come back only next week.
She gets up. Cleans up. Washes her face. Reapplies the pink lipstick. And resumes her place at the door . Her purse one note heavier. And the luring game begins. Round two for the day.


Its not about seeing this, or imagining this. Its when you see a hundred such similar sights that a persons head bursts with the events surrounding him.Hundred, i kid you not.
The red,  pink , green flashes do not end. The shouts , the pulling and pushing of bodies on the street do not end.
Or so you think.
Just as abruptly as the lane arrived , it vanished.


We arrived in front of our parked car. It was my car alright.With the happy yellow sunflower on the dashboard. 
The rickshaw driver turned back and said, " Thirty Rupees, madam."