Meri rai me, Red is the best.
Yes, I have a mobile phone. A Nokia something something.
I named it ‘Red’, but commonly refer to it as ‘the damned thing’.
It’s a curse to not care about cell phones when you belong to a generation that swears by them. By default you are counted among those who are glued to the gadget, talking for hours, furiously texting minute-by-minute updates of their life to friends. And friends of friends.
Sorry if I break the monotony…but I don’t make lengthy calls or message/forward jokes to even chuddie buddies regularly. In this respect I feel united with the previous generation who are proudly technology-impaired. The thumb numbing cell phone culture does not impress me. The idea of being so accessible is disturbing and adhering to it would make me feel vulnerable.
Why do I own a phone then? Some would rate this mystery on the same scale as the bermuda triangle. My popular explanation- “for emergencies” (read- my folks like to know when I’m getting home and if I’m going to eat dinner)
The scant attention the lal dabba gets from me is hardly a secret. Silent mode is my favourite thing in it. I forget to recharge. Balance has been 0.63 since the last call that was made over a week ago. Also I prefer dumping it in my bag instead of carrying it on my person…which explains why I miss calls. I have lost Red on more occasions that I can remember and incredulously, it has always found its way back. At such times, I admit I have sensed a reluctant camaraderie between the two of us.
The act of writing the above ticked me off but I owe my trusty piece of junk this much. Gah.
To Red, who has withstood my less than gentle handling, who hides in unseen corners of my bag when I need peace, who waits patiently for those rare Vodafone top-ups, who has died several deaths and come through singing a bright song, I dedicate this post.
In a weird way, you understand me. Someday, I’ll figure you out.