Missed calls

In India, most cell phones are pre-paid. Phone calls cost 1 rupee per minute, so if you want someone to know you care without spending money, you give them a missed call. Just call and hang up, so your friend's phone registers the attempt.

I met lovers who did this every hour, all day long. One of my friends bragged that he and his girlfriend, who was hundreds of miles away in Kashmir for the winter, had never gone longer than 4 hours without a missed call.

For a handful of rupees, you can also buy a song for callers to hear while they wait for you to answer. The man I dated bought a favorite love song from a current Bollywood hit - Rab Ne Bana Di Jodi - and renewed his subscription faithfully each month of our courtship. He wanted me to call and listen several times a day, but I resisted carrying the phone he gave me. I needed to unplug in India. I wanted to wander the beach, get lost in books, or stop for spontaneous chai with fellow travelers. I refused to be accountable at all hours and often forgot to return his missed calls.

During our morning beach walks, he patiently taught me the Hindi words to our phone song. He asked me to sing it to him over and over.

"I like it so much when you sing, because you don't sing properly," he told me. This embarrassed me - I was trying to sing properly - but I'd still squeak out the lyrics whenever he asked. If I couldn't remember the missed calls, it was the least I could do.

Once I returned to America, it took several days to connect with him overseas. The first time I called and heard the theme song to Rab Ne Bana Di Jodi tinkling through the phone lines, my chest felt suddenly vacant, as if I'd only just realized I'd forgotten my heart at the other end of that call.

Months later, after I canceled my international calling plan, I wrote this poem. You can find it in the most recent issue of WTF?.


Missed Call

Women and men
do not hug
in public India.
Even when one of you
is technically American
and actually flying
to the other side
of the world
from the other one of you.
I want to leap
up on your hips
wrap my arms
around your neck
and cling
until women hide their faces
in embarrassment
and airport security
separates us
with bamboo blows.
Instead I brace myself
for a chaste handshake,
culturally appropriate
in its formal brevity,
but personally
romantically
devastating.
I pull my pack from the idling taxi
and turn to extend my hand.
The driver slams the door
too fast
its metal edge
knocking me dizzy
before our fingers touch.
Your face is already a blur
and I’m not even moving yet.