The Telephone

She was six.

Her mother worked at an office, the name of which she could never remember.
Her father worked at a Bank. He was a banker. That's all she knew.
Her day started with her mother waking her up for school. She combed her hair into two, tight braids and dropped her to the gate of their house, to her bus. She watched her father as he peeped over his morning newspaper with a subtle smile on his face and over-pronounced affection in his eyes as she got onto the bus.
Both of them wave. She waves. The bus leaves.

That's her morning.

After six hours of Primary school - grade one, she was back home. The bus dropped her to the gate around 2 PM. At this time, there was no one at the gate, except her watchman. The old man opened the gate for her (someday soon she would be tall enough to reach it herself).  He smiled at her each time, half amused by her soiled clothes for she played in the streets with the puppies every day after school; her hair half-done, her cheeks red, her eyes shining bright.
Khaana Kha liya, beti? he asked her each day, without fail. She nodded affirmatively and flung open the front door to a dark hallway. She then closed the door behind her and entered the world where time would stand still.

She would watch the television for hours, for there was no one to tell her that it is not good for her eyes. She would somersault on her bed with her shoes on; something her friends would never dare to do lest their parents should find out.

She would have candy bars from her over stocked refrigerator as and when she wished. Well, who is there to stop her?
She was the little Princess of the house. Until the phone rang.

Don't ask her why, for she might never be able to tell. Is it the pitch of the ring screaming through the empty silence of her house or is it the voice of the grown-up on the other side? She could never tell.
However, each time that phone rang, her heart would stop beating and then within seconds accelerate to a speed just too proportionate to the sudden rise in volume in the air. She suddenly got aware of the darkness she had been in all this while. She suddenly got aware of her being the only one in the house - the fact she was actually enjoying until then. She was no longer alone, she was lonely. Sometimes she waited for the ring to stop, hoping they would not call again. However seldom did that happen. Within seconds of the ring stopping, heartbeat seeking its normal pace, the air is filled once again with that particular grown-up's second attempt. This time she picked up, the little brave heart.

"Hello?" She needed to sound strong or else the grown-up would want to know whether she is okay. That was never a good topic to venture into, she knew by experience.

"Hello beta! How are you?"
This one's simple. "Fine." Then she remembered what she was taught in school; "And you?"

"Arre we are also very fine, beta!"
After this the conversation was usually straight-forward. "How is mumma?" "How is daddy?" "When will they come home?" "How was school today?"She had her answers prepared for all of these and if answered correctly, they will not bother her anymore. The grown-up ended the conversation with a few sweet words and hung up the phone. She can then go back to her happy world. Eating candies, watching TV, jumping on the bed, hoping that she won't be interrupted anymore for the day until her parents return at night. 

The worst kind of grown-ups were those, who when she picked up the phone shouted enthusiastically,

"Hello beta! GUESS WHO?"
Her palm began to sweat each time she was asked that question. 'I don't know' was never a good answer since it was always followed by a disappointed 'you don't even remember me?' tone. She cleared her throat. She used a lot of 'erm'. She remained silent for what felt like an eternity till the grown-up gave up and revealed their identity. Then came the second dangerous question- "Do you remember me now?"
"Yes!!" She was smart, the little princess. She knew that was the only answer to the question. After this, she only had to answer the regular ones- "How is mumma? How is daddy? How is school?". No need to be scared of these.
Such was her fear of the Telephone.
Weekends were fine because her parents did all the calling. She did not get to hear the ring much.
If there was any call, it was most probably a bad news- someone's had a heart-attack, someone's getting a divorce (or threatening to) or someone's dead. The call is followed by the girl's mother hanging her head low and her father comforting her or vice-versa.
The Telephone was the carrier of heart-aches, she deduced. Nothing good can ever come out of answering the call...any call. Why have it in the house in the first place and spoil your smooth running life? She often wondered.
Her worst nightmare began when her parents installed a parallel connection on the first floor of her house. She no longer knew which one to run for. She knew that picking either one up would serve the purpose but at the time the phones ring in chaotic unison, her brain shut and she found herself running around the hallway for the first few weeks. It was traumatic, it really was.
She still remembers the first time she confronted the Telephone. The first time she knew that she was over her fear. Enough is enough.

She was fast asleep after her long afternoon chase behind the street puppy. The phone rang and woke her up from her deep slumber. She jumped off her bed, this time with no hesitation whatsoever. Picked up the one in her parent's room- "Hello????"
"Beta! You remember me??"
"NO. BYE."

Phone slammed down. Door shut. Back to slumber. 

She tasted accomplishment.
The Telephone never bothered her after that.