The 1917 Hand-Cranked Telephone Still Connects a Himachal Valley

In the upper reaches of Himachal Pradesh's Parvati Valley, where snow blocks roads for months and mobile towers are absent, a telephone system from 1917 still works. There is no dial tone. To make a call, you turn a crank on the side of the phone—generating roughly 90 volts of alternating current—and wait for the operator to answer. The operator, a retired schoolteacher named Ramesh Chauhan, sits in a small shop powered by a car battery. He asks, “Kya number chahiye?” and plugs a cord into a socket. The call connects. As of early 2025, this system serves roughly 100 to 120 households in the villages of Pulga, Tulga, and Kalga.

A Valley That Never Hung Up

The Parvati Valley, about 50 kilometres from the town of Bhuntar, is not a place where infrastructure comes easily. The roads are narrow, often unpaved, and frequently blocked by landslides. Electricity reached some villages only in the 1990s, and even now, power cuts are common. Mobile phone signals are weak to nonexistent. Yet the hand-cranked telephones, installed by the British-era Posts and Telegraphs department, have worked continuously for over a century.

The system is a magneto exchange: each phone has a crank that spins a small generator inside the handset. When turned, it sends a high-voltage AC signal down the copper wire to the exchange, causing a metal flap to drop with a clatter. The operator sees which subscriber is calling and answers. There is no automatic routing; every call is manual. The exchange itself is a wooden box with rows of jacks, each labelled with a subscriber's name. Ramesh Chauhan, who retired as a schoolteacher in 2015, took over the exchange from his father. He runs it from a corner of his general store, where he also sells biscuits, soap, and kerosene. The exchange is powered by a 12-volt car battery, charged by a small solar panel when the sun is out, or by a diesel generator when it is not. Chauhan says he handles roughly 30 to 40 calls a day, mostly from villagers checking on relatives in the next valley or coordinating the delivery of supplies.

A field report by The News Minute in late 2024 confirmed that the system is still in active use. The reporter spoke to several residents who said they preferred the landline to a mobile phone—if they could get one—because the landline never fails during a storm. “When the snow comes, the mobile towers go dead. But the copper wire still works,” one resident said. The monthly fee is a flat ₹100–150 (roughly US$1.20–1.80), collected by Chauhan and remitted to Bharat Sanchar Nigam Limited (BSNL).

For the younger generation, the hand-crank phone is a curiosity. Most children in the valley now have smartphones—but they use them only when they walk to the nearest town with a tower, a two-hour trek. At home, the old magneto phone is the only way to reach the outside world. “It is slow, but it is reliable,” Chauhan says.

Why Copper Wires Survived Where Fiber Failed

Why has BSNL not replaced these ancient lines with fibre optic or even a simple digital exchange? The answer lies in the terrain. The Parvati Valley is a steep, narrow gorge. Laying fibre requires digging trenches along roads that are barely wide enough for a jeep. Snow and rockfalls frequently damage cables. Copper wire, by contrast, is easier to repair: a broken line can be spliced with basic tools by a local technician.

BSNL estimates that maintaining the copper network in the valley costs roughly ₹5–7 lakh (about US$6,000–8,500) per year, mostly for occasional repairs after winter storms. Replacing it with a modern system would cost several crore rupees—and the number of subscribers is too small to justify the investment. The government's Universal Service Obligation Fund (USOF) does subsidise rural connectivity, but its priority has been mobile towers, not landlines.

Across Himachal Pradesh, some 50 to 60 manual exchanges were still operating as of 2023, according to BSNL internal reports cited by the Himachal Pradesh State Electricity Board. Most are in remote valleys like the Parvati, the Spiti, and the upper Beas. A few have been upgraded to small digital exchanges, but the process is slow. In many cases, the local community has resisted the change: the manual exchange is a social hub, and the operator knows everyone's business.

Copper wire also has a practical advantage in cold climates. Fibre optic cables can become brittle in extreme cold and are more prone to breakage when ice forms on the lines. Copper is more forgiving. And because the system uses very low power—just enough to ring a bell and light a drop-flap—it can run on batteries for days without recharging. “If the solar panel fails, we still have the generator. If the generator fails, we still have the battery. If the battery dies, we can pedal a bicycle dynamo,” Chauhan jokes.

The biggest threat to the copper network is not technology but theft. Copper prices have risen sharply, and in other parts of India, telephone lines have been stolen for scrap. So far, the Parvati Valley has been spared, perhaps because the villages are small and everyone knows everyone. “If someone tried to cut the wire, they would be seen,” Chauhan says. “And where would they run? The road is blocked half the year.”

Kolkata's Rotary Relic: The Last Manual Exchange

The Parvati Valley is not the only place where India held on to manual telephony. Until 2018, a manual exchange operated in Kolkata's Bhowanipore neighbourhood, one of the oldest in the city. Located in a narrow lane off Ashutosh Mukherjee Road, the exchange served roughly 800 subscribers—mostly elderly residents, small businesses, and a few government offices.

The exchange was a relic of the 1930s, with rows of switchboards where operators sat on high stools, wearing headsets, and plugged cords into jacks to connect calls. The most senior operator, Sushmita Das, worked there for 37 years. She knew every subscriber by voice. “I could tell who was calling from the way they said ‘hello’,” she told The Times of India in a 2017 interview. “If someone was sick, I would ask after them. If a family was expecting a call from abroad, I would hold the line for them.”

The exchange was slated for closure in 2015 as part of BSNL's digital upgrade. But subscribers protested. They said the manual exchange was more personal, more reliable, and cheaper than a mobile phone. A local residents' association collected signatures and petitioned the BSNL regional office. The exchange stayed open for three more years, finally closing in March 2018.

Unlike the Parvati Valley system, the Bhowanipore exchange was not hand-cranked. It was a cord-board system: when a subscriber lifted the receiver, a light glowed above their jack. The operator plugged in a cord and asked for the number. But the principle was the same—human mediation. Das and her colleagues could handle up to 100 calls an hour at peak times. “It was hard work, but we never lost a call,” she said.

However, the Bhowanipore exchange also faced challenges that ultimately made it unsustainable. The cost of maintaining the switchboard and training operators rose over the years. BSNL argued that the exchange was losing money—each subscriber paid only ₹150 per month, while the cost per line was nearly ₹500. Moreover, the building housing the exchange was old and required repairs that BSNL was unwilling to fund. Despite the protests, the closure went ahead. This shows that manual exchanges, while cherished, are not always economically viable. In Parvati Valley, the low cost of maintenance and the lack of alternatives keep the system alive, but in a dense urban area like Kolkata, the economics tipped the balance toward digital.

The closure of Bhowanipore marked the end of manual exchanges in Kolkata. Today, the building houses a small BSNL office that sells prepaid SIM cards. But the switchboards remain in a locked room, preserved by a retired engineer who hopes they might one day be displayed in a museum. “It is our history,” he says. “We should not forget how we used to connect.”

The Unlikely Longevity of Telephone Exchanges in India

India had more than 300 manual exchanges in 1990, according to the Department of Telecommunications. By 2020, fewer than 10 remained. Most were in remote areas of Himachal Pradesh, Uttarakhand, Jammu and Kashmir, and the Northeast. A few still operate in the Andaman and Nicobar Islands, where the terrain makes mobile coverage spotty.

The survival of these exchanges is partly due to government policy. The Indian Telegraph Act of 1885, which still governs basic telephony, allows exchanges to continue operating as long as there is local demand. In practice, BSNL has not forcibly closed any manual exchange that still has paying subscribers. The cost of maintaining a manual exchange is low—roughly ₹2–3 lakh per year for a small board—and the revenue from monthly rentals covers it.

But the economics are marginal. A manual exchange typically serves 50 to 150 subscribers, each paying ₹100–200 per month. That is not enough to upgrade the system, but it is enough to keep it running. BSNL also receives a subsidy from USOF for providing service in areas where private operators would not go. The subsidy is calculated per line, and for manual exchanges, it is higher than for digital ones, because the cost per line is higher.

The average user of a manual exchange is over 60 years old. Young people, even in remote villages, prefer mobile phones—if they can get a signal. But many elderly residents are comfortable with the old system. They trust the operator. They know that if they crank the phone, someone will answer. “My grandchildren have smartphones, but I do not know how to use them,” says 72-year-old farmer Hari Ram in Pulga. “This phone, I understand. I turn the handle, and Ramesh bhaiya picks up.”

There is also a cultural dimension. In small communities, the operator is a trusted figure who knows everyone's comings and goings. If someone is expecting a call, the operator will send a child to fetch them. If a call comes in for a person who is not home, the operator will take a message. This level of personal service is impossible in a digital exchange. “It is like having a personal assistant,” says Chauhan. “I know who is sick, who is travelling, who is expecting money from a son in Delhi. I help them connect.”

How a Hand-Cranked Call Works Today

A hand-cranked telephone, technically called a magneto phone, is simple. Inside the handset is a small AC generator—a magneto—that produces about 90 volts when the crank is turned. This voltage travels down the copper wire to the exchange, where it activates an electromagnet that drops a metal flap (the “drop-flap indicator”) and rings a bell. The operator sees which line is active, picks up a headset, and plugs a cord into the corresponding jack.

The operator then asks for the number. On a manual exchange, each subscriber has a unique jack, but the operator does not dial—they physically plug the cord into the destination jack. If the destination is in the same exchange, the call is connected directly. If it is in a different exchange, the operator calls another operator on a trunk line. In the Parvati Valley, all calls are within the valley; there is no STD (Subscriber Trunk Dialling) or ISD (International Subscriber Dialling) facility.

The phones themselves are heavy, black bakelite boxes with a handset cradle and a prominent crank on the side. Many are original British-made models from the 1910s and 1920s, with the manufacturer's name—Siemens, Ericsson, or Automatic Electric—still legible on the base. They have no dial, no touch-tone keypad, no display. The only moving parts are the crank and the bell. They are nearly indestructible.

Calls are not metered. There is no billing meter, no pulse counter. Subscribers pay a flat monthly fee, regardless of how many calls they make. This makes the system affordable but also limits its use. “People do not make long calls,” Chauhan says. “They call to say, ‘I am coming home’ or ‘Send the medicine with the bus driver.’” The typical call lasts less than two minutes.

The sound quality is… distinctive. The line is often noisy, with crackling and hum from the copper wire. Voices sound tinny and distant. But the connection is stable. Unlike a mobile phone, which can drop a call if you move two steps to the left, the landline works as long as the wire is intact. “You can hear the wind in the wire sometimes,” Chauhan says. “But you can always hear the person.”

Lessons for a Hyper-Connected Age

In a world of 5G and satellite broadband, the hand-cranked telephone offers a concrete observation: reliability often matters more than speed in many contexts. The Parvati Valley phone never drops a call during a storm. It never runs out of battery. It never gets a “network busy” signal. It is slow, but it works.

Another observation is about community ownership. The Parvati Valley network is maintained by the people who use it. When a wire breaks, a local volunteer climbs a pole and splices it. When the battery dies, Chauhan charges it. There is no waiting for a BSNL technician to drive up from Bhuntar—which could take days. This low-tech, high-trust model keeps the system running at minimal cost.

There is also an environmental angle. The copper network uses almost no electricity. The exchange runs on a car battery and a small solar panel. The phones themselves consume no power except when the crank is turned. In an era of energy-hungry data centres and 5G towers, the old system is a model of energy efficiency.

But the system is not without its drawbacks. It cannot handle high volumes of calls. It cannot connect to the outside world except through a single trunk line. It cannot send text messages or browse the internet. For many villagers, the lack of internet access is a real limitation—especially for children who need to study online. “We have to go to the town to use the internet,” says Sunita Devi, a mother in Pulga. “It is difficult.”

As satellite broadband services like Starlink expand to India, the days of the hand-cranked telephone may be numbered. BSNL has plans to install a VSAT-based network in the Parvati Valley within the next few years. “We cannot keep the manual exchange forever,” a BSNL official said in a 2024 interview. “But we will keep it until the last subscriber switches.”

For now, the cranks still turn. The drop-flaps still fall. And Ramesh Chauhan still answers, “Kya number chahiye?” It is a connection that has lasted over a century—not because it is the best technology, but because it is the right one for this valley. As Chauhan puts it, “When the snow melts and the road opens, everyone has a mobile. But when the snow falls, they only have this.”

What will happen when the last subscriber switches? Perhaps the copper wire will be left to rust, or perhaps a museum will claim one of the handsets. For now, the valley remains connected by a 1917 system that outlasted every upgrade—because in a place where snow buries the road for half the year, a crank and a copper wire are not obsolete; they are the only thing that works.