Editor’s Note: The last publication of Samachar (July 2007) contained an article titled “Cell Phone – How India Handles It”. It drew the attention of a few readers, who called or e-mailed to tell their personal experiences in India related to telephones. Their stories were fascinating because they were real and unique. I have taken the liberty of narrating the stories of two such individuals in their own words, as best as I can. Dr. S Ramanathan and Mr. Inder Kapoor, long time residents of Honolulu now live on the mainland USA. The stories of these two septuagenarian gentlemen should be of interest especially to young readers. They tell of yester years in India before the advent of mobile phones.

By Dr. S Ramanathan

In 1969, I returned to India after a four-year stay in the U.S.A. I went to Bangalore to meet with my friend Dr. Jayraman, whose wife Kuntala was near term pregnant at that time. She with her three year old daughter was to visit her parents who lived in Villupuram, about 200 miles south of Bangalore. Jayraman had an old Fiat and wanted me to accompany them in the trip. A friend of Kuntala and her three year old daughter also joined us. Jayraman’s father made sure that the gas tank was full and the spare tire was in good condition. We left after lunch and drove for a while enjoying the scenic beauty of the place. Miles and miles of distant hills and farmlands flew by us. We were approaching the town of Thiruvannamalai, famous for its Shiva temple. Then I heard a rattling sound from underneath the car. The car was stalling; it had a flat tire. I got out of the car, helped Jayaraman replace the tire with the spare and we moved on.

It was not long before the spare tire also gave away. Thiruvannamalai was still a few miles away. We, the two neatly attired men, two beautifully dressed ladies and two little girls stood there by the road in the middle of nowhere. Soon a public bus overflowing with passengers and luggage came by. The driver, seeing us stranded, picked up Jayraman, the punctured tire, the two ladies and the children and drove away towards the town. I stood by the road keeping guard of the jacked up car. The sun was setting, spreading a spectacular hue through the hills while I was contemplating of the impending darkness worrying about my lot.

How long I stood like this I do not remember. I saw a man in his mid thirties approaching me from the horizon followed by a few kids. He came close and shouted, “I am a local school teacher and these are my students. Please tell me about yourself.” I told him all that happened and gestured my despair. He listened to me for a while and then left abruptly. I continued on with my contemplations.

A little later the teacher returned. This time he had water, food and a banana leaf, all carried by the students. I washed my hand, sat on the dusty roadside with the banana leaf spread in front me. The students served hot dosas, sambar and coconut chutney. I was so hungry I devoured everything save the banana leaf. I enjoyed the food that evening more than any food I had eaten in a long time. My gratitude was beyond me.

Soon after, a villager riding a bike came by. He brought a message from my friend Jayraman – the tire was fixed and he was on his way by the next bus. When Jayraman finally arrived, we put the tire on and drove to Villupuram late at night to the relief of Kuntala’s parents.

This incident is engraved in my memory because of the way the people who were complete strangers, took care of us in our distress. I am not sure whether the same human touch still exists in India now that the modern technological culture has arrived. Surely, it would have been different if the same situation occurred today and if I had a mobile phone in my hand. But the incident proved that the fellow feelings among Indians in those days more than compensated for today’s technological advantages.