When I was quite young and living in Jhansi, it must have been 1944 or 1945, we had one of the few telephones in the town. I remember well the polished wooden case, made of teak, fastened on the wall in our living room. The black receiver hung on the side of the box. I even remember the number-26. I was too little, but used to listen with fascination when my father talked in it. He just lifted the receive and after a wait began talking in it. Once he lifted me up to speak to his fellow officer. Magic!
Then I discovered that somewhere inside that wonderful device lived an amazing person-her name was ‘ Number Please’ and there was nothing she did not know. If my father had to catch a train and wanted to know ‘is it coming at right time ?’ Number Please supplied the correct information. My first personal experience with this genie-in-the-receiver came one day while my mother was out shopping. While playing, a table toppled and it’s leg fell with a loud thump on my finger.. The pain was terrible but crying was not helping as there was no one in the house. I walked around the house sucking my throbbing finger when a thought struck me. The telephone! Quickly I pulled a footstool and unhooked the receiver.
“ Number Please,”said the female voice
“ I hurt my fingerrr,” I wailed into the phone. The tears came readily enough, now that I had an audience.
“ Where is your mother?” came the question.
“ Nobody’s home except me,” I blubbered.
“ Are you bleeding?”
“ No,” I replied. “ The leg of a table has crushed my finger and it is hurting.”
“ Do you have cold water in your ghara ?” she asked. ( Those days there were no refrigerators and the ghara - an earthen vessel- kept the water cool))
“ Yes”, I said.
“ Then take a towel. Wet it with the ghara’s cold water and hold it tight on your finger. That will stop the pain. And stop crying,” she admonished. “ It will be all right soon.”
After that I used Number Please many times. She helped me with my geography and my arithmetic.
And there was the time when Gana, our pet Blackbird, died. I called Number Please and told her the sad story. She listened, then said the usual things grown up say to soothe a child. But I was unconsoled:. ‘ Why did a bird who sang so beautifully and bring joy to our lives, have to die?’ She must have sensed my deep concern, for she said quietly, “Remember beta (son), there are other worlds to sing in.”
Once my baby younger sister was unconsolable in her crying., I lifted her to the receiver. I do not what Number Please said, but she stopped crying.
Number Please even knew my name. Whenever I called the Number Please for something, pat would come the answer,“ Anil…..”
Then, when I was a few years older, we moved out of Jhansi to Lucknow and I missed my mentor acutely. Number Please belonged to an era that was no more.
In 1967, I was posted to Datia, a town 20 kms from Jhansi, as Collector. On a weekend, I visited Jhansi to relive my childhood. On a impulse I dialed the telephone exchange. Miraculously, I again heard the soft ,clear voice I knew so well.
“ Number Please?”
I hadn’t planned this, but I heard myself say, “ What do I do if I hurt my finger?
There was a long pause. Then came the softly spoken answer. “ I guess,” said Number Please, “ that your finger must have healed by now.”
I laughed. “ So it is still you. I wonder if you have any idea how much you meant to me during all that time.”
“ I wonder,” she replied “ if you know how much you meant to me? You were the same age as my son and your voice sounded similar. Whenever you called, I felt I was speaking to my son. I used to look forward to your calls. Silly, wasn’t it?”
It didn’t seem silly but I didn’t say so. Instead I told her I was now Collector, Datia, and living close to Jhansi. Could I call her when I next came to Jhansi?
“ Of course” she replied. “ I am so proud that you are now Collector, Datia.” Then in a slow, sad voice she said, “ Whenever you come next, just ask for Uma. And if they can’t find me just tell them your name. Then they will do something to locate me.” She wanted to say something more but there was a long silence.
“Good bye, Uma.” It sounded strange for Number Please to have a name. “ If ever I hurt my finger again, I will know what to do,” I said.
“ Yes, of course, “ she laughed
A few weeks later, I again went to Jhansi. A different voice answered Number Please, and I asked for Uma.
“ Are you a friend?”
“Yes”, I said. “ An old friend.”
“ Then I’m sorry to have to tell you. Uma was working part time in the last few years because she was ill. She died last week. But before I could hang up she said, “ Wait a minute. Did you say your name was Anil?”
“Yes”
“ Are you the Collector of Datia?”
“ Yes,” I said.
“ Well, Uma left a message for you. She wrote it down.”
“ What was it? I asked
“ Here it is, I’ll read it-‘ Tell him I still say there are other worlds to sing in. He’ll know what I mean.’ ”
I thanked her and hung up. I knew what Uma meant