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26 Nov 2015

Fractured Hearts

Did you know that this decrepit phone that lies in a corner of this desk drawer was once the most cherished object in a pretty girl’s purse?



She loved it with a passion for it was like her own personal little genie. A few taps, a few clicks and she could do anything – order a new stack of books, book tickets to go see her nana, find her way out of a galli that didn’t seem to be part of the instructions…

But most of all, she loved it because it was her only connection to the love of her life – he was an important man in the Merchant Navy and lived the life of a nomad, but the phone made sure that their relationship blossomed into a mighty oak with roots that grew past her childhood. Every now and then she would get a text from him, she would almost always smile at the thought of him, grazing a thumb lovingly across the screen, wishing it was the skin on his face that her thumb touched; strong and handsome with a five o’ clock shadow that weakened her knees and an affinity for whodunits, she knew she was lucky to have snagged him. She would spend hours on the phone, twirling her earphone wires around one sparkly nail as she fell more and more in love with her Mr. Charming. Their dreams of how their wedding was to be, the names for their children, their hopes for the little house that he had put a down payment on… all found their way to each other through the marvel that was her phone.

It was also the same phone that found its way to her stepmother who promptly ‘arranged’ her marriage to her first cousin, a 40-year-old divorcee with a lisp and an undying penchant for kallu. The phone saw months of tears, hunger strikes, and arguments until one day, it fell to the floor and the screen cracked as drops of blood from its owner’s wrist dripped onto its face.

It was salvaged though: both the life and the phone. But the screen remained cracked, just like the life.  

Dark times prevailed because women are women’s worst enemies. While the gentle girl familiarized herself with the violence of marital rape, the love of her life pined away on seas unknown, searching for an anchor to hold him down during stormy times, the anchor that was once her. Bleak is a real word. It is a real feeling. “Bleak” wreaks more havoc than “sad” or “angry”. Bleak is that point wherein you have crossed the threshold from feeling everything to feeling nothing. Just like the display on the dying phone.


Her heart fell into disuse just like the phone. Both were tucked away carelessly in a dank corner, pretty useless except for when a random memory of a happier time flitted across, bringing with it a brief flare of life, but later making everything seem darker than it was before.

***

So many stories I hear of people who truly care about each other not being allowed to be together for no rhyme or reason. Explain the logic to me, please?