By HG Tejiyas Das
It was May and already by 6 am it was sweltering hot, even for Delhi. I started the day, going house to house in Hauz Khas, business to business in Connaught place. Yesterday I had received a notice, on a white post card, from the phone company, to return the phone we had leased during the LIC grounds festival last year. At that time the only phone company, along with almost everything else in India, including the buses, was owned and managed by the socialistic leaning central government. I had planned my day so I could collect the phone from the storage place at Kellson’s Shoes and then return it to the Central Telephone Office on nearby Janpath. It was kept in a medium size green canvas duffel bag which opened from the top with two flaps which had a series of large brass rings through which a rope could be inserted to close it. Inside I found the phone, an ancient type, with a mechanical circular dial that went cluka, cluka, cluka, as it turned. The housing was strong black plastic and there was a long black cord at the back. On top, between the rests for the hand set, was a round metal bell, like the one used on a bicycle. If you set the phone down a tiny bit quickly the clanger inside the bell would shake and hitting the shell, ding ding, ding, produced a sound, the alert for an incoming call. Unluckily the Telephone Office was closed; I had forgotten that it was a holiday. So, 30 lb bag of books and my brief case in one hand, the green bag with the phone in the other, I ran and jumped into the first bus headed back to Kashmeri Gate, of course it was totally packed.
I was tired, hungry and thirsty. For me it was late, 7, only 2 hours and lots of things to do before I rested at 9. I decided anyway to try again to make Mr. Jain, the owner of the Ritz Cinema, a life member. The entrance to the cinema was as narrow as you might find to an apartment and non-descript. Just to the left was Mr. Jain’s tiny office, when I entered he was seated behind his desk talking on the phone. There were two chairs in front of his desk with barely enough space for me to maneuver into a chair. The room was air-conditioned, about which I had mixed feelings. Though a relief for a few minutes, afterwards the outside temperature burned even more. It’s also easy to get a sore throat that way.
I had seen Mr. Jain three or four times, trying many tactics to get him to sign up. He is very favorable and friendly and besides I could use a drink of nice clean water. Srila Prabhupada’s words went through my mind, “we should practice like a salesman” in selling his books. For moral reasons I had refused to sell ordinary books – I couldn’t tolerate the duplicity needed for ordinary business, always selling at a price higher than cost did not meet with my plan to keep away from anything that exploited. But I was happy to try to find honest ways to coax people to take these spiritual books, and membership in India was Srila Prabhupada’s special method.
Mr. Jain was convivial but still reluctant. Out of the blue I got an inspiration to try something a bit different. I had been taught (by my Peace Corps trainers) that in India one should not touch anything with the foot as it was considered disrespectful. Putting that morality aside for a moment I gave the green bag I had placed under the desk a quick kick, with the success of making the phone ring ding dings. It was the latest news there had been a new invention – the wireless telephone. The prototypes were huge, similar to those used by the military and utilized the new communications satellite. They were very expensive. In India they were banned and even few people even in the west had them. They were called “mobile phones.”
When the bell on top of the phone jingled, I feigned surprise: “oh a telephone call!” Mr. Jain stopped what he was doing and stared at me. Reaching down, I moved the bag on to the chair next to me. Carefully I pulled out the phone making sure the end of the cord stayed in the bag to give the appearance it was a working phone.
Setting it on the table I lifted the receiver to my ear. I casually said to the now fully shocked Mr. Jain, pointing to the telephone receiver as I spoke “Forgive me but I have an important call.” Clasping the phone between my hands as in making Namaste, I closed eyes and uttered the prayers to my spiritual master: “Jaya om vishnu-pada paramahamsa parivrajakacarya astottara-sata sri srimad Bhaktivedanta Swami Prabhupada Maharaja ki jaya. Jaya Srila Prabhupada.”
I looked at Mr. Jain whose jaw had now dropped open, “Excuse me. It is my spiritual master, Srila Prabhupada. He gave me this phone just in case he wanted to call me.” I periodically nodded my head just as you do during a conversation and kept saying “Yes. OK. Very good. I will. Certainly.” “Oh yes, Srila Prabhupada, I am here in Kashmiri Gate. You know it very well, yes, near Atmaram book store. I am with Mr. Jain who owns the Ritz Cinema. Yes, of course, Srila Prabhupada, I have asked him to become a life member. He is a very nice man. Yes, I will ask him on your behalf once again.”
With that I again said the prayers used for offering respects to the spiritual master, placed the handset back onto the phone and dexterously returned it phone to the bag. Without a word I slid the life membership form across the table to the mesmerized Mr. Jain. He filled it out along with a check. With a bow of his head handed these to me with both hands.
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