Appukrishnan M V

I’ve always taken pride in carefully maintaining my digital devices—at least, I used to. Over the past year and a half, however, my track record has taken a hit. My journey into the world of screen damage began when I inadvertently placed my phone in a pair of snug jeans. With a bit of extra weight gained over the college break, those jeans were tighter than usual. After a brief outing, I pulled out my phone only to find the right edge of the screen tinted with an ominous purple “bleed.”

At first, I brushed it off as a minor blot. But, after a closer inspection, I realized the purple stain was spreading to other areas of the screen. Alarmed, I took it to a local repair shop in central Kannur Town. The technician explained that my phone’s display pixels were damaged, causing what he described as “bleeding.” It was a surprisingly medical term, which made me imagine the phone almost like a living thing. He offered two options: a basic LCD replacement for about 1,800 rupees, which would fit but lack the original quality, or a near-original display for roughly 2,800 rupees.

Since this was my phone’s first significant mishap, I thought it deserved the best. I decided to check with the official service center for a genuine replacement. There, they quoted me 4,500 rupees for an original display. After some internal debate, I reasoned that this was a one-time repair and opted to proceed with the official service.

Though the repair had been costly, I reassured myself that the crisp new display was worth it, vowing never to make the same mistake again. Unfortunately, that promise proved short-lived. Six months later, during yet another vacation (a time that seems to carry an ominous curse for me), I found myself in a similar bind. Late one night, engrossed in a binge-worthy TV series on my laptop, I leaned back to relax—accidentally pressing the back of my phone’s display. Instantly, memories of my previous screen repair disaster came flooding back. I checked the screen anxiously, and to my relief, it seemed unharmed.

However, at dawn, reality struck. When I reached over to switch off my alarm, I noticed the dreaded purple stain reappearing in the very spot where I’d replaced it last time. I was speechless. My parents, understandably frustrated, blamed me for my carelessness and advised me to simply buy a new phone. But I was too attached to let it go. Determined to revive it once more, I returned to the company’s repair center to replace the display again.

This time, an unexpected twist awaited me. The office receptionist at the service shop, after examining my charging port closely, noticed it was rusted. She then popped open the back cover, revealing that the entire charging circuit was corroded from water seepage. She marveled at how my phone still managed to charge, even keeping its fast-charging mode intact—truly, a small technical miracle.

She asked if I wanted to replace the charging circuit, but when she quoted a price of eight hundred rupees, I hesitated. Fearing the reaction of my parents over yet another expense, I opted to skip the circuit replacement and just stick to the screen repair. Still, I felt a strange pride; my phone, despite its rusted internals, soldiered on as my steadfast companion. But as fate would have it, my luck wasn’t about to hold.

I could never have imagined that my phone, lovingly resuscitated twice before, would meet such a tragic end. My faithful companion—a 2020 Samsung M Series phone that had stood by me through my neglect—succumbed to what I can only describe as a hauntingly final demise: a fall into the Delhi Metro, followed by a thorough soaking in baking soda (I presume of the steaming waters of the rails where this salt is used as cleaning agent).

I’ll spare the painful details of how it happened; my heart isn’t ready to relive it. But I can tell you this much: in my desperation to revive it, I took the phone to every repair expert I could find along Ritchie Street. This stretch, both spatially and metaphorically across from the government’s super-specialty hospital, boasts a variety of “specialist doctors” for phones, much like those at the hospital for people.

My first consultation with a prominent technician on the main street ended abruptly. The diagnosis was grim: he informed me, with a dispassionate detachment, that my loyal device had no hope. His prognosis struck me as almost darkly comical—he declared my phone had died from “excessive salts” invading its system. I couldn’t help but find it ironic: human doctors often recommend salt for ORS, but against cardiac health – a stroke, and here it was, the very thing that rendered my phone’s condition terminal.

My second consultation brought a glimmer of hope. This technician, located just across from the Irani tea shop, offered me a sliver of reassurance—much like the comforting warmth of a hot cup of tea. He promised to clean the parts and see if he could revive my phone. Feeling hopeful again, I savoured a butter bun from the tea shop, letting myself believe that this repair might be different.

But thirty minutes later, my optimism was shattered. The technician, with a tone that tried to soften the blow, informed me that my phone was beyond saving. Despite the hopeful words, the reality hit hard. Once again, I found myself back at square one, facing the finality of my phone’s fate. On asking him what was “beyond repair,” I learned that no technology or service would help revive my poor phone. By then, I was utterly drained—both physically and emotionally exhausted from the ordeal. Thankfully, I didn’t have to pay consultation fees at any of the stops along my phone’s ill-fated journey. Small mercies, I suppose, in an otherwise disheartening experience. 

Pause… Just as unexpectedly as the Second Coming, came Professor Solly’s proposal. With a glimmer of hope, he suggested he’d be willing to courier my phone to Shekhar’s shop in Bangalore—or even deliver it in person—for a closer inspection. I’ve come to terms with the fact that my phone might not spring back to life, as Rajkumar mentioned in his interview with Bhaskar about salvaging usable parts from damaged devices to repair others. But I find comfort in knowing that parts of my phone that still work might bring joy to someone else, just as it once did for me.