Nostalgic Tales

Our first phone wasn’t really ours. It sat in a box—switched off, admired, and returned like a sacred relic. My father received a gift—an old Vodafone cell phone. But we were living in a village, and couldn’t afford a network provider. So he preserved the phone carefully in a box. On some evenings, he’d take it out, turn it on, feel it in his hands, and put it back. Just for the experience. It was around 2001 or 2002. By 2004, things had changed. Mobile phones started moving into every family. Nokia was a huge part of that revolution. But we still didn’t have our own number. Whenever I needed to call someone, I’d use the phone at a shop right across from our house. I had memorized their landline number—along with my best friend’s and my school’s. Our first actual phone was a black Nokia 1600, with an Airtel SIM. I had moved to Ranchi by then. During one visit home, I convinced my mom to let me take the phone back with me. Was it third-hand? Fourth? Who knows. It worked. ...