Memory

I have difficulty when it comes to initiating a conversation. I validated it from the people I work with. Whenever I find a challenge, I actively try to work on it. But recently I have wasted a lot of time and have avoided learning new things. Last weekend when a school friend of mine pinged for some work, I asked her if we can meet up. Another friend from school joined us. It was more than a decade I had seen both of them.

As we started understanding our married life, there were a few questions about how I started writing. While telling them about how I used to find out time during my engineering days and how trying to impress people (read a few girls.) led me into writing more stories, I recently realized it makes me feel better after writing. When I mentioned that these days I have made myself too busy, to take out 20 minutes to write. I was telling them about the projects I had left incomplete.

That is when I thought about telling them the story I was planning to write this weekend, which I had convinced myself not to write by stating that I was too busy. Every story has an inspiration. In the name of fantasy, I do have told stories where I literally meant what I wrote. I was telling my friends how my recent inspiration for my next 3-minute read came from.

I was with my colleagues last week and we waited long back to hang around post-work, on my way home I took an auto-rickshaw. It was 11:16 and I could see a few notifications on my mobile. Only 1% battery was remaining. For all the people who know me, I live my life with 1-15% of battery, anything more than that is an indication that someone from home has been kind enough to charge my phone.

With a phone as good as dead and the auto rushing towards home, I could feel the relatively cool breeze after a hot summer day. The time in the night, the highway, and with the head inclined on the seat support, it is the best way to swing the mind in the future and past. I loved every bit of it. That is when, I looked down at my phone, tightly clutched in my left hand. I have used the phone for a long time now.

I was wondering how this phone has lived a life of its own with me. My father gifted me the phone. Ever since then, the phone has seen my fight, my cry, my depressed emotions, my happiness, my joy, my failure, and my success. It knows when I feel low, and I don’t want to talk. It has been with me for calls as long as five hours at a stretch. It has seen people come, and people go.

I don’t think most of us have anything apart from the phone, that we spend the most time with. If it could feel me, and If I could have felt it, it would have been my best companion. While traveling from South to North, while capturing pictures, sending millions of text messages, knowing the secrets that I wouldn’t probably share with anyone rests in the memory of the phone.

When you read this, and if you are reading it on the phone, ask yourself, how much does this piece of metal or fabricated plastic powered by a battery own a share of your life?
You might change it, buy a new one, but remember one thing, somewhere deep down the memory of you in it still leaves.