“Physics tells me there is no time
I tell physics to unsqueeze a lime!
Suspicion was the principal thief
Then there was boredom — from which no relief!
Sunset heralded by shrieks of sleepy birds
Dawn by the mooing of hungry herds…”
From Jhanam ki Rasam, by Bachchoo
Complex are the uses of technology which, like the toad, ugly and venomous, wears yet a precious jewel in his head…!
Gentle reader, we can replace that generous adjective with others: devastating, life-enhancing; world-changing — and even fruss-f…ing-tating!
Let me start with my least irritating encounter with developing tech.
I’ve written a screenplay about a stormy triangular relationship. My producer showed it to a young writer he admires for a critique. He sent the few pageson to me. Most of it was minor and fair enough — ego suspended — but the main point was that today’s relationships could begin on the Internet, on Tinder, etc, and that had, for a modern audience, to be alluded to in the film.
The screenplay already had mobile phones and computers, but no dating app usage.
Even so, I invented a sub-plot to seamlessly accommodate the disappointments of “love” pursued through the Internet. I even created a Tinderella!
I worked on this on my recent brief visit to India where I was in Bengaluru and then Delhi. When I first alighted in Bangers, I turned on my Indian phone and tried dialling people to say I’d arrived. It didn’t work. I used my UK phone, which did, but without wi-fi it cost me foreign dialling charges.
The next day I took my Indian phone to the local Airtel shop. There were these smart young lads and lasses, all with red T-shirts with labels saying rocket-science expert or something. After an hour of fiddling around, they told me nothing could be done as the phone had a “Delhi number”.
I was unaware that numbers were city-specific. I was going to Delhi in a few days and so, when there, resolved to visit Delhi’s Airtel shop.
I did and again encountered the T-shirted experts. After an hour of fiddling and testing, they said it wasn’t an Airtel number. I should go to the Vodaphone shop, to which they directed me.
I walked there and again, after half an hour, was told it wasn’t a Vodaphone number either. I asked what then was it and they couldn’t say. Retreat again.
My Indian cultural upbringing has taught me that if a problem can’t be resolved by official procedures, one could always resort to improvisation, known in India as “jugaad”!
I went to the back alleys of Khan Market, where the money-changing stalls on the pavement also repaired mobile phones. The operative at the booth I approached offered me a pavement stool.
He examined my passport and my OCI card and photographed both on his phone. He then accessed some form on his phone, into which I had to fill in endless details of my name, birthdate, London address, e-mail and even the name, etc. of a nominee contact — someone who could verify my credentials.
I assured him that I didn’t want to buy the Taj Mahal, just to get my phone working. He tolerantly absorbed my sarcasm, appreciating the fact that I had already spent perhaps three-quarters of an hour while he sought the advice of one of his colleagues in the next booth.
They both then concluded that in order to give me a new SIM and number, they had to take my photograph — not just a simple “selfie” or shot, but something in the frame of a government-provided app.
Two of these operatives tried with different cameras, asking me to sit on stools, stand against white paper backgrounds… They must have tried over fifty times to get the right picture. They made me pose, came closer, went further, asked me to blink constantly, to smile, to wear my spectacles, to take them off — nothing worked. Do pop stars undergo the same ordeal for publicity?
I naturally asked what this was about and was it because I was not an Indian identity card holder? They explained, at some length, that this was a very strictly enforced law when handing out phone numbers, and anyone who wanted an Indian phone had to undergo all this. Both men piously added that this was because mobile phones were the chief instrument for the perpetration of several scams, and even lethal crime, and the police had to have access to the details of who had access to the phone numbers.
The photo session having failed, I was handed back my phone. Fixed? Is the Pope a Zoroastrian?
And so, to the last frustration with modern tech. I took a Virgin flight back to London with my inoperative Indian phone and was assured that on the flight, Virgin had a way of connecting me to the Internet, so I could WhatsApp anyone on my UK phone once we took off. Great. I had hitherto believed that once one left the earth, there was no possibility of a connection. Now there was.
Once we were in the air, I turned on my phone and followed the instructions, which meant filling in a lot of info. I got to the end and Virgin told me that something had gone wrong and they couldn’t connect me after all. The frustrating miracles of what we call “progress”!
Disclaimer : This story is auto aggregated by a computer programme and has not been created or edited by DOWNTHENEWS. Publisher: deccanchronicle.com
