|
a grown-up, would shriek, "Hello?
Hello?" at super sonic level. I hadn't yet learnt
how to parrot Assalam aleikum to all elders, so I would
usually reply, "Hello? Hello? Hello!? Hello?"
This could go on for ages till
we moved on to the next stage: "Beta who are you?"
This was a puzzler for me, as I'd been taught never
to tell my name to any stranger on the phone. I replied,
"I'm sorry, I can't tell you." The caller
would squawk with indignation, the receiver would inevitably
crash down on the other end, and my poor parents would
receive an earful what an odd daughter they had raised:
"Amreekan bachhey tau kitney badtameez hai."My
Urdu had improved enough by then for me understand what
that meant!
I remember the early days of PTCL
when fifty percent of the time you could get connected
to the number which you had dialled. The other fifty
percent could put you in touch with anyone from Salma's
Parlour to the Civil Hospital to a mechanic's garage
located in Korangi. It was like phone lottery; unfortunately
you always lost, as you had to pay for the call whether
you got through to the right number or not.
PTCL had many other ways of driving
us all crazy. Calling either 17 (Directory Inquiries)
or 18 (Complaints) was solely a way of exercising your
fingers, as no one would be told to "hold"
and then never be spoken to again. People have been
known to die while waiting for the number for Flight
inquiries. And if you ever dared get to a higher up
and complained about your local linesman or operator,
the next morning you'd wake up to a dead phone and an
inflated bill of 45,000 rupees. Now, however, PTCL has
|
