"Sir, I have reached Calcutta. No sir, no problems during the journey. Consignment has arrived safely sir. Breakage sir? No breakage. Only minimal. To be expected in a journey like this sir. No sir, will I lie to you sir? Not too much breakage."

The man is sweating now. "Sir, a no breakage journey is not possible on our Indian roads. Sorry sir, it won't be repeated sir. Convey my regards to madam." He takes a handkerchief from his pocket, mops his face, and hands me an ancient fiver. I stare at his blue Hawaii slippers as they flop away dispiritedly and shake my head in sympathy.

I am sipping my coffee as the next customer walks in. He is a middle-aged man from the hospital across the road. I get a lot of customers from there; I recognize them by the way they cling to the handsets, the tenuous string that is connecting them to the worried loved ones so far away. How must it feel, I wonder, to worry at the other end of a telephone line? To wonder if you are getting the truth, or a less painful edited version. To be terrified each time the phone rings, scared you will hear some unimaginably (yet so often imagined) bad news. This man looks anxious as he dials the number.

He gives the broken glass enclosing the booth a passing glance. I have been meaning to replace it for some time now, but I am lazy, besides which I can hear the conversations of my customers better this way. "Malathi?" he says. "No don't worry. The doctors say they know what is wrong now. It's tuberculosis." "No, no calm down. Six months of treatment and he will be fine, they say. I think we should be happy." "Heartless? How am I being heartless? He is my son too, of course I am worried. I am just telling you what the doctors said."

"Yes, it is curable, the doctors guarantee that. He just has to take his medicines regularly." " When will we be coming home? Another week maybe." " No Malathi. I am not hiding anything. I promise." "Ok, I will call tomorrow. Put the scooter in if it rains." "Is your son better, Mr. Dorai?" I ask as he pays me (I have been eavesdropping on all conversations as usual, and have been following the course of his son's illness over the past week.) "Much better, by the grace of God." he says and walks away.

The flow of customers becomes negligible after eight AM. In this era of ostentation and waste, our city is conspicuous for it's frugality. People travel by bus, not rickshaw, avail all discounts, and rarely call during full rate hours. I sip my coffee, light another cigarette and am halfway through the crossword when a man swaggers in. I know him well and dislike him for various reasons - the earring in his ear, the cheap cologne, the fact that he despises his father for being a shopkeeper while depending on him to the pay the bills. I listen to his conversations with a morbid fascination.

"Hi, Anju." he drawls in to the mouthpiece. "Still angry?
"Look. I did not cheat you. I meant it when I said I loved you."
"You are mixing the issues. I still love you. I just feel the need to be single. Can't you understand that?"
"No, there is no one else. How may times do I have to tell you before you believe me? Fine I will go to hell." He shouts and slams the receiver down. He shrugs self-consciously as he pays me for the call.
"Cute girl but too eager to get married." He says and gives me his version of an oily man to man grin. I do not smile back. I am not usually judgmental, but this man disgusts me. A noisy group walks in. An old lady in a Benares, a man with vibhuti on his forehead, two young sari clad females.
"Bua, it's a baby girl!"
"She is so cute - 3kgs."
"Looks exactly like our Mousumi."
"Tell the priest the time of birth is 11.30 AM."

They walk away smiling and radiant. Things quieten down again, and I apply myself to the crossword. I sit back and watch the sunlight gleam on my neat yellow booth. The orderliness of my workplace soothes me a little. I think about the little boy recovering from his illness, the rejected girl sobbing in to her pillow. I think about them, try not to think about what I am running away from. What I am hiding from in this telephone booth.

I am just finishing my packed lunch when a thin old lady walks in. She looks tense and worried and I listen curiously. "They say that he needs surgery, son. No, I asked the doctor like you told me to, but he says that the surgery is absolutely necessary. How much? Approximately one lakh." She pauses, as if stunned.

"How can you say that? How can you even think it? It is your father's life we are talking about. How can you say it is too expensive?" She is crying softly now.
"I know you have two school going children, but can't you help us a little bit? Please, son." She waits for an answer.
" All right." she says softly,wiping her tears.
"Ok, I'll try to manage." She hangs up and fumbles in a small purse for change to pay me. She walks away still weeping. Children bring you nothing but heartbreak, I think, as I watch her bowed head retreat. A mild faced gentleman walks in. " Sumana? I've just reached Calcutta. How is our daughter?
"Still crying?
OK, let me speak to her for a moment."
"Shyamala? How are you child? Don't cry. It is just an exam. It is not worth so much misery."
"Are you practicing yoga like I told you to?"
"Of course it will help. Just give it some time. Patience, my child. Patience and faith. You must believe that things will work out all right in the end."
"Of course you will pass next time. You just need to work harder. And you have to be strong. Will you promise me to try?"

I try not to notice that the man is weeping softly as he speaks to his daughter. I do not understand where people find the courage to be parents. I can not imagine loving some one so much that their pain hurts you more than your own. The truth is, I can not even imagine... loving.

The afternoon is hot. Nothing happens. Even the air is still. I read "The prophet." and try to find peace there. But peace, as always, is elusive. I lean on the back of my chair and wait for some one to walk in and stop the quietness. A young girl walks in at seven pm. "Hello Amma." She says. 'Yeah I've got a room"
"Yeah my roommate is OK."
"No, I'm not OK. I miss you." She says and begins to sob. I turn away. I can not bear the sight of people crying. And so many of them do. So many.

Perhaps that is why I prefer to sit in my booth, insulated from the anguish of the real world. People are surprised that I, with my master's degree in mathematics, am content to manage a phone booth. The truth is that I am scared. Terrified of life. Just listening to the pain, being a passive audience to the tragedies around me is so painful. I can not picture myself participating in the trauma that I see and hear every day.

"I some times want to kill myself"
"Bhaiya, he passed away this morning"
"The doctors say that there is nothing else that they can do. Shall I bring him home?"
"I'm so lonely. So very lonely."

Hearing what I do, I am not surprised that Siddhartha chose to walk in to a forest to look for peace there. I do not have the inner steel that he had. I do not possess the strength to run away from the whirlpool of the world.

My form of escape is to stand at the edge of life and listen in. And this is what I hear.

"Study hard and do well."
"May God bless you."
"I'm sorry. I can't go on with this anymore."
"I do not want to see you again."
"He is dead."
"I love you."
"Good bye."

Back to Reading Lounge