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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