Chandigarh: In today’s world of instant communication and virtual interaction, it is difficult to imagine – let alone explain to anyone under 50 years of age – that there was a time when speaking to someone locally, long-distance and especially overseas, was a miraculous feat.Making such calls in the 1950s and 1960s of my youth was pure melodrama, complete with its own timing, unwritten code of conduct and cast of characters. It was a ritual – requiring patience, perseverance and above all, hope: histrionic and over-the-top in its overall convoluted complexity.My odyssey with telephones – austere black instruments without rotary dials or push-buttons – began in the late 1950s in Punjab in the era of manual exchanges, when callers waited for the omnipresent command of “Num [number], please”, issued by male operators; women would not feature on the lines till many decades later.A moment of suspense followed, once the number had been given, after which a faint, burrowing hum signalled that the connection had finally been made. Even then, there was no guarantee of an uninterrupted conversation; breakdowns were common, and calls often dissolved into mysterious “hold-ups”, with voices fading into silence and the line going ominously quiet.Resolving this usually necessitated a swift trip down to the local telephone exchange, where the switchboard sorcerers presided over the wires. A polite plea, and occasionally a familiar face amongst these exchange high priests, was needed to persuade them to “free up” the line and restore the connection.But from that magic moment after a connection was established, the operator ceased to be merely a switchboard functionary and became an unavoidable third presence in every call – one who may or may not be listening. There were countless instances of operators stepping in either as referees, counsellors or simply commentators, with unsolicited wry remarks or sage advice when conversations grew heated, confused or on occasion, amorous.At times, such enforced intimacy from the operator’s side ended up resolving knotty situations that went well beyond the mechanics of mere telephony intermediaries. One apocryphal tale at the time spoke of a heated long-distance exchange between a son and his father, the former asking for money, the latter refusing outright. As the seconds ticked away and tempers frayed, the operator finally intervened, calmly persuading the father to relent – and extend not just the call – but a loan as well.But above all – anonymous or not, intrusive or not, irritating or not, unsolicited or not – this invisible army of operators embodied a human presence that was almost palpable, prevailing daily across the wires and endless hiss of static. In retrospect, their anonymous voices – wholly unimaginable today, in an age of simulated speech, automated menus and algorithmic replies – once stood gently between people, mediating conversations, softening edges and lending a quiet warmth to even the briefest exchange.What felt then like an interruption now, in hindsight, feels like intimacy. However brusque or unwelcome those interventions may have seemed at the time, they were unmistakably human. Today, as we loop endlessly through recorded prompts and synthetic politeness, struggling to reach a human voice at the other end, those long-gone operators seem compassionate in memory. Technology, no doubt, has become faster and exponentially more efficient today – but something essential was lost when the human voice stopped acting as its interface.Krishna Prasad, director-general, Posts and Telegraphs Department books telephone calls at the Telephone Exchange in New Delhi during the ‘Courtesy Week’ that was inaugurated by the department on August 15, 1950. Photo: public.resource.org/Flickr/CC BY 2.0.Alongside long-distance calls, until the early 1970s, were an even more daunting obstacle course conducted from one’s living room or study. You did not simply lift the receiver and dial; you booked a call – urgent or ordinary – with significant differences in cost after multiple attempts, through your telephone exchange.Then began the wait.Personal schedules were reworked, meals postponed and no one dared stray too far, for missing the anticipated ring meant forfeiting the call altogether. Often, the air grew thick with expectation, and when the telephone finally rang, it was a more strident and prolonged ring than usual; a deafening crackle followed, which was the signal to begin shouting as loudly as you could, for the voice came faintly through the line, barely audible above the tinny, electric static, and the entire household leaned in, straining to catch every word of a conversation that seemed as fragile as it was urgent.These trunk calls – lasting three minutes, extendable for the same time period each time – were further supplemented by ‘lightning calls’ – a super-fast telecommunication burst of instant gratification which generated a different thrill altogether – but at a significantly higher cost.In its execution, the phone would trill, banshee-like, without warning, within minutes of the call being booked, shattering the calm, as if the surrounding walls themselves were startled. The operator’s stentorian voice would then briskly cut in like a drill sergeant to say: ‘Ringing … be brief’ before stepping aside. When the line finally went dead after 90 seconds or so, it invariably felt as if a major campaign had been won, and a hard-fought milestone secured.In this miasma of trunk calls there was also a special PP (person-to-person) category, and in the event of the concerned party not being around or traceable, the call was aborted, though charged for the attempt made.Overseas calls were even more dramatic, often taking more than an entire day to materialise.I recall my parents booking a call for telephone-less neighbours to their son in Germany, and then spending the entire evening poised in expectation. When the phone finally rang in the early hours, both households converged eagerly around the instrument as the “private” conversation unfolded, with the young man timidly telling his parents about the German girl he intended to wed – a prospect regarded with no small alarm back then.And even as his parents voiced their disbelief and opposition to such a union, through the hiss and static of the connection, they did not mind the audience, as any overseas call in those days could never be a wholly private affair. It was a rare, expensive spectacle, and everyone present – however unconnected or merely incidental – was entitled, by custom if not by courtesy, to a share in that fleeting global moment.In New Delhi, many had no choice but to repair to the Eastern Court of the General Post Office on Janpath – less a post office than a theatre of anticipation and endurance – to make trunk or overseas calls, often waiting the entire day for a connection to materialise. Hundreds of callers jostled for a place near the control centre, eyes flicking hopefully toward the operator. Time stretched endlessly as lines buzzed and clicked, and when one’s call finally came through, it felt like a major triumph – a small victory and a quiet one-upmanship over those still waiting.The managing director of the Indian Telephone Industry in Bangalore presents a telephone to the prime minister of Ghana in January 1959. Photo: public.resource.org/Flickr/CC BY 2.0.However, no account of telephones from that age-old period would be complete without acknowledging the distinctive culture of official India – particularly in the districts – where the instrument itself became a potent symbol of bureaucratic authority and power.In the official residences of the district collector, superintendent of police and other senior provincial officials, for instance, telephones were no ordinary devices, like elsewhere. They were heavy, meticulously polished instruments, housed in wooden boxes with carry handles – essential household hardware in their own right – and tethered by long wires that snaked across sprawling colonial-era bungalows and their equally resplendent lawns, reinforcing the sense that power quite literally travelled through the telephone line.These lifelines enabled these august officials to administer and conduct business from their living rooms, dining rooms and bedrooms; bark orders from the middle of the lawn; or even hold court from commodious bathtubs in cavernous bathrooms, the instrument dutifully – almost reverentially – borne by staff from room to room like a ceremonial baton, its trailing wire stretching power across wide spaces.In those days, telephone numbers too were astonishingly short – rarely more than two or three digits – reflecting the small scale of the network and the limited number of subscribers. Accessing them required navigating bulky telephone directories, painstakingly listing every subscriber, which was updated only once every five years. These hefty tomes, often several inches thick, were indispensable tools and compulsory props in every home with a telephone, symbols of a system still tightly bound by limits, hierarchy and the thrill of connection.Thereafter, the introduction of electronic exchanges in the mid-1970s revolutionised India’s telephony, replacing manual systems with automated exchanges and bringing unprecedented speed and autonomy to all communication. Concurrently, it also introduced hugely expensive subscriber trunk dialling (STD), enabling domestic long-distance calls without operator assistance.But, at the same time, STD opened the door to widespread misuse, official and unofficial alike. Not all telephones had the facility – owners had to specifically opt for it – yet everyone who did found ways to sneak in long-distance chats, either for free or for the nominal 25 paise at an unsuspecting person’s phone, often pretending it was a local call.As Delhi University undergraduates, many of us regularly patronised local shopkeepers and halwai shops in nearby Kamala Market, paying the mandatory fee while connecting to our families or acquaintances in other cities. Occasionally, we were caught mid-call, our eyes furtively darting and hearts racing – the surreptitiousness of the entire clandestine manoeuvre all adding a thrill to the experience, and to the exciting revolution in long-distance communication that was now at our fingertips.Yet, with the expansion of the communication infrastructure came acute shortages.Personal telephone connections remained scarce for years, often requiring patience, influence or a touch of luck. Through the 1980s it was widely believed that by the time a telephone connection was finally installed, children had grown up, learned to drive or were even married. A telephone connection also became a prominent feature in marriage dowries, as it conferred an instant elevation in social standing upon the newlywed couple.People went to extraordinary lengths to acquire a telephone, befriending MPs and politicians – who naturally received priority – or, more often, tapping into the shadowy mafia of linesmen and exchange officials, who supplied connections for a price. The entire system resembled a bazaar for the highest bidder, where patience, audacity and connections mattered more than procedure.In the 1990s, expensive calls that once required influence or long waits could now be made for a nominal fee. Photo: McKay Savage/Wikimedia Commons/CC BY 2.0,I distinctly recall standing in line in 1980 during the “morning durbar” at the Lutyens bungalow of Congress MP Rajesh Pilot, then communications minister, to request a telephone connection, even though I was an accredited correspondent and entitled to one, but remained on an interminable waiting list.Pilot immediately recognised me, having played squash with me several times at the Indian Air Force’s Central Vista Mess in New Delhi – a building long since demolished – and promptly instructed his assistant to ensure a telephone connection was provided without delay, which it was. But standing in the shadow of a Lutyens bungalow that morning, I realised that in India getting a telephone then was less about technology and more about networking, handshakes and yes, the occasional squash match.Sam Pitroda’s telecom revolution in the late 1980s/early 1990s transformed communication in India. By rapidly expanding telephone exchanges and introducing technological innovations, his initiatives rendered telephony more accessible, efficient and affordable, especially beyond the metropolitan elite.What had once been a privilege of the few – those with wealth, influence or political connections – was now within ordinary reach. One of the most visible outcomes of this revolution was the mushrooming of STD booths across the country, tucked away in crowded bazaars, railway stations or beside roadside dhabas, bringing long-distance communication within everyone’s reach.Expensive calls that once required influence or long waits could now be made for a nominal fee, and though modest in appearance, STD booths democratised communication, making it part of everyday life and setting the stage for India’s next major leap: mobile phones.These early models that emerged in the 1990s were bulky, costly and far from common, with each call made or received costing a staggering Rs 16, turning conversations into carefully audited calculations. Businesses, politicians and affluent households eagerly adopted them, treating each device as both a practical tool and a status symbol.Yet, even at their exalted price, mobile phones reshaped habits, expectations and hierarchies. Rapidly evolving technology soon made them lighter, faster and more reliable, and within a short time, smartphones became the instrument of choice for millions.Today, India is among the world’s most connected societies, with all manner of communication instantaneous and affordable. But what began as a marvel and a convenience has now morphed into a relentless, anti-social appendage and crutch, and the very device that promised communication ensures we are connected to everyone and the world, but certainly not to each other.