Friday, November 21, 2014

Those lines on my palm

In the first week of October, my phone crashed. Like Launchpad always did. Similar to him, it survived as well, but with more-than-visible damages. The fractured lines running on the screen created a wormhole in my throat after i found the courage to pick up the phone from the floor. Goes without saying that the sound that our smartphones make after hitting the ground is the closest we’ll ever get to hearing a heart break. Needless to add, i slipped into semi-depression during the following hours. You know when something like this happens to you, you start reminiscing EVERYTHING that happened before the very moment your phonescreen got kissed by gravity. You should have seen my face by the way—‘cause i couldn’t—when i held my poor phone in my hand. We both looked at each other in a language that screamed of unspoken horror. Since the touchscreen was working and there was no real internal damage to weep on, i was trying hard to convince the Buddha in me that it was alright. But whenever my eyes met my phone, i couldn’t forgive myself for letting such an atrocious thing happen to a dear friend. The design in the resulting crack suggested domestic abuse on my part, as if I punched it four times with each knock leading to epicenters of confounding streams. One such knock happens to be on the very point where my notifications are displayed, obstructing the view. Hence, “more-than-visible-damages”.
What you just read was the sad part.
Two nights after the Grand Crash, i was in a local train happy to have bagged an imaginary fourth seat. I usually avoid taking a seat unless it’s near the window but that day, i was feeling old. I was fidgeting with my phone as usual when a co-commuter’s dhakka led to Grand Crash 2.0. To my expected misfortune, the phone once again fell flat on its face. However, since i was marginally used to the drill now, i calmly picked it up to inspect the crash site. The fracture lines were deeper. And some distributaries had joined streams on the screen, elaborating the art that my smartphone’s dumbface now showcased. On noting the impact his dhakka translated to, the guy responsible for it apologised profusely: “Sorry yaar, galti se haath lag gaya…” I interrupted him by saying, “Koi baat nahi.” I almost heard Ennio Morricone’s desert music in the background when i help up my right hand to deliver the three-word dialogue. The relief in his eyes was worth the melodrama that we avoided. Who would want to pay for something they didn’t want to damage in the first place? I’m sure my response restored his faith in humanity, if not his ability to commit expensive mistakes. I felt blissfully young that evening to play that prank on him as well as myself.
What you just read was the funny part.
It’s been several weeks since and i’m no longer bothered by my phone’s sad appearance. I’ve never been into appearances anyway. I always felt nothing remains the way it currently is so it’s a lot easier for me to accept change. Yes, I almost sounded like a husband in a broken marriage there. Well, it’d be a lie if you don’t accept that your phone is your constant companion. Your dearest friend. Your confidante. Your lifesaver, if shit happens. It’s your reason to believe that others are worth keeping in touch with. It’s not just an electronic device. It’s a partner. And to those who might wonder why I never got my screen repaired, I’d rather buy a new phone instead of spending a penny more on this slick-buttery-piece-of-trash-that-didn’t-think-twice-before-slipping-out-twice-out-of-my-firm-masculine-hand-FUCK-YOU!
What you just read could have been you.

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