Why I should never let my Grandma use my Smartphone Again

Let me tell you something upfront.

Never—under any circumstance—should you give your grandma your smartphone.

Not when she's curious.

Not when she's “just checking the weather.”

And especially not when she has no idea what a smartphone even is.

It all started last Friday when I made the biggest mistake of my life. I left my phone unattended on the kitchen table… right in front of my 72-year-old tech-enthusiastic-but-hopeless grandmother.

She had just discovered that you can "Google" anything. Literally, anything.

I was making a cup of coffee when I heard her muttering from behind:

“Hmmm... so this phone can tell me who invented chicken biryani?”

She poked the screen three times with her index finger like she was interrogating a suspect. Then, with the same intensity, she yelled:

“O Google! Oi Google! I’m asking you something!”

I turned and saw her yelling at my wallpaper.

“Dida, that’s not how it works,” I said. “You have to tap the mic or type.”

She gave me a suspicious look.

“This thing listens to everything, right? I’m sure it’s spying on my pickle recipe. That’s why Shanta from next door made the same mango pickle this year.”

She was dead serious.

Later that evening, she was determined to change her WhatsApp profile picture. She insisted the current one—an old blurry photo from her ration card—made her look “like a criminal caught stealing rice.”

She took a selfie.

Correction: she tried to take a selfie.

The photo she ended up uploading was a zoomed-in picture of her left nostril. And for some mysterious reason, it had a spoon in the background.

“I look modern, na?” she asked proudly.

Her phone contacts—mostly extended relatives and a temple priest—were alarmed. One even sent a message saying, “Mashi, are you okay? Blink twice if you need help.”

Next day, she discovered Candy Crush.

Now, I don’t know if you’ve ever seen a senior citizen play Candy Crush with war-level focus, but it is both hilarious and terrifying.

She screamed every time she matched three jellies.

“BOOM! Yes! You see that? That jelly never saw me coming!”

I heard her mutter:

“This is better than Ramayan!”

She played for six straight hours.

When I finally asked for my phone back, she glared at me like I’d tried to snatch a newborn.

“Go buy your own phone! I’m on level 29, and my jelly career is taking off!”

The real horror began when she figured out online shopping.

I had my Amazon app open. She saw a “Flash Sale” banner with blinking lights and thought it was a temple donation ad.

Two days later, our house looked like a mini godown.

What did she order?

• 16 packets of glow-in-the-dark hair clips (she’s bald).

• A dog costume (we don’t have a dog).

• A Bluetooth-enabled umbrella (we live in Dhaka).

• And... a churidar for a goat.

“Dida, why?” I asked.

“The model looked so happy in it! Thought I’d surprise your uncle’s goat.”

She saw me scrolling through Instagram.

“Who are these people eating cake and dancing on reels?”

Before I could answer, she clicked the plus (+) icon and made her own account:

@SpicyDida72

Her first post? A video of her yelling at the ceiling fan because it wasn't spinning fast enough.

Caption: “This fan is a liar.”

Within 24 hours, she got 321 followers, mostly teenagers who thought she was a parody account.

One commented:

“This is the content I signed up for. She’s the real influencer.”

She replied:

“Beta, eat your vegetables.”

One day, I caught her staring at an AI-generated painting on Facebook.

She whispered:

“This girl looks like your late grandfather, but with lipstick. Did someone hack our family album?”

Then she downloaded FaceApp.

Huge mistake.

She turned my cousin into a crying baby, gave herself pink hair, and then turned a potato into a smiling old man.

When I tried to take the phone back, she hissed:

“Don’t you dare delete Grandpa Potato!”

One fine morning, my crush texted me “Hi 😊”.

Excited, I left my phone unlocked and went to the bathroom.

By the time I came back…

Dida had responded:

“Hi beta, my grandson is a very good boy. He has all teeth. Please marry him.”

I screamed.

She smiled.

“What? You’re 25. You need help.”

My crush sent back a thumbs-up emoji and blocked me.

She somehow activated the voice assistant.

“Hello Google,” she said.

“Hi, how can I help you?”

“I want to cook fish curry. Do you eat fish?”

“Sorry, I didn’t understand.”

“You don’t understand fish? What kind of Bengali are you?”

She argued with the phone for 15 minutes straight before declaring:

“This robot is useless. Bring me the neighbor's son.”

Yes. That happened.

Then she posted a photo of our neighbor’s cat, saying:

“This one looks like Minister Babu last time he came to our street.”

The post went viral. People loved it.

She gained 2,000 followers and now has her own fan club.

When I asked if she even knows what “going viral” means, she replied:

“Yes, it’s when you sneeze and everyone gets it!”

Close enough, Dida.

One final incident sealed the deal.

I asked her to hand me my phone during a Zoom meeting for work.

She handed it after five minutes with a smile.

That evening, my boss called me, laughing uncontrollably.

Apparently, she had replied to my boss’s email with this:

“Hello Sir,

My grandson is very busy doing nothing, but he is very handsome. Please give him bonus and make him CEO.

Thank you,

His lovely Grandma

P.S. Please eat fish.”

I nearly fainted.

Now, my grandma walks around with sunglasses, claiming she's a “tech influencer.”

She gives advice to random people on the street:

“Don’t use Facebook too much, it gives gas.”

“If your phone hangs, hang it on a hanger.”

She still uses my phone, and I’ve given up.

Last week, she ordered a T-shirt online that says:

“Don’t Talk to Me, I’m in a Zoom Call”

She doesn’t even know what Zoom is.

But you know what?

Despite everything—every embarrassment, every disaster, every nostril selfie—I wouldn’t trade her for anything in the world.

Because no smartphone in the world can give me as much laughter as this analog legend.