Mobile syndrome

(While going through some old collection of documents on my computer, I found an interesting piece I had written on my niece, Pallavi. Interestingly, she is now a bright and outgoing journalist, however, a lot about her temperament remains the same.)


All that I could see in the cot was a dash of jet-black hair, and two twinkling eyes. I instantly nicknamed her Tuk-Tuk. She was my one-day-old nice and her nani’s first grandchild. And before we realised, our toddler, Tuk-Tuk, had grown up into a charming and endearing Pallavi.

However, all was well in the family till the time a well-meaning and generous dad decided to present his only child with a mobile on her nineteenth birthday. “When you are getting late in college, you can call home and inform. It will help keep mom’s blood pressure in check,” he told her quietly. Ofcourse, ‘daughter dear’ had other plans.

In no time friends had been informed and a get-together organised. “I am celebrating my birthday. Now you don’t need to worry, you can contact me so easily,” a slightly confused mom was told. Soon the young lady was out in a new Shopper’s Stop outfit with a swanky mobile in hand. And the rest is history.

After some months, watching my sister’s plight, I decided to intervene. “Don’t waste so much time on the mobile. You also need to study,” I said, trying hard to sound casual.

“I am not gossiping mausi. There are sometimes serious issues to be sorted out. Now see, my friend is in the library, and I need this particular book,” I was told politely.

However, only the other day, I had overheard her telling a friend, “Why don’t we leave Jane Austin’s heroine alone, Darcy fellow is most irritating. You know he reminds me of Amitabh Bacchan in Deewar. Aren’t you near the PVR complex? How about getting tickets for that Aamir movie.”

As a last resort, nani was put on the job. “Drill some sense into her head,” my sister said. Now, no one can disobey nani and within minutes a beaming nani informed us, “She has promised she will not talk on the mobile till her exams are done”. Yes, she had managed the impossible. The mobile had stopped ringing.

My sister was relieved. Interestingly, Pallavi didn’t appear to be missing her mobile. But things looked too good to be true. Meanwhile, I did a bit of snooping around and found that the mobile had been turned on the vibration mode and an SMS message only required the nineteen-year-old’s well trained fingers. However, she had kept a part of her promise and I decided not to interfere and upset the tranquility of the household.

Recently, after she recovered from an appendices operation, her surgeon confided, “I have seldom seen a patient like Pallavi. We had barely wheeled her into the recovery room and there she was all wide awake.”

Pallavi swallowed the compliments graciously. But we knew intuitively that the answer lay elsewhere. Afterwards she owned up that it was the shrill ring of the doctor’s mobile, in the recovery room that had woken her up so completely. For once, we could not reprimand her.

Surprisingly, the family is still optimistic. “It is only a passing phase”, says nani trying to pacify a perturbed mother. I call it the ‘mobile syndrome’. Meanwhile, her friends, amused by her new obsession, have nick-named her ‘Pallavi Mobile’.