The Mobile Repairing Boy Ch. 01

Chaoter: The Man Who repairs Too Much

Mumbai streets were soaked with rain.

The air was heavy with the aroma of marigolds, damp soil, and the smoke of incense spiralling out of Ganesh Chaturthi pandals.

Drums were loud, but Meenal barely noticed them. Lately, it seemed as though everything had stopped its existence as her mobile started giving trouble since last night.

The mobile screen kept rebooting and losing battery for no apparent reason.

She now stood in front of a small, dark shop, squeezed between a stationery shop and a pan shop. Overhead hung a hand-painted, worn sign:

Irfan Mobile Repair Service.

Time and humidity had eroded letters, the paint chipped.

A city that is supposed to be among the declared smart cities, it seemed as if it belonged to another decade.

The Google reviews, however, had been encouraging.

Inside, a young man--mid-twenties, perhaps--looked up from a phone he was using.

Trim beard, sharp jaw, eyes that lingered on you a beat too long. He didn't talk immediately. Just glanced at her with a sort of calm that caused her to unconsciously change her dupatta.

"Madam ji?" Standing, he eventually spoke in a low, courteous tone.

"Any problem with your mobile?"

Holding it out, she nodded. "It restarts constantly."

Their fingers touched for a second.

He picked up the phone carefully as if it were delicate.

"I will check it carefully. It could be because of battery overheating. I'll ensure it gets resolved."

His tone was quiet, almost careful.

---------

The next day, the rain was still there, but she managed to reach the shop anyway.

Irfan looked up and gave a subdued grin when she walked into the store.

Pushing her phone across the desk, he remarked, "All done. The battery had a problem of overheating, and he had to change a part."

She had mixed feelings of relief and uneasiness, but she gratefully accepted it.

He said softly, "Some data got wiped during the reset. But I got most of it back. Your data, photos, contacts... do check"

She started to scroll. There were contacts. The files were also intact. The photos seem to be in place.

But just as she was about to put the phone away, she noticed a folder named Private.

Her heart skipped a beat. That folder was not meant to be there. Months ago, she had personally deleted it, fearing that her growing son Aryan someday might come across this folder.

The folder contained photos shot during very intense moments, during their holiday trip.

With shaky hands, she tapped the folder to open.

In the very first picture, she was teasing the waistband of her pants, her fingers exposed far more than she had ever intended for anyone else to see.

The next photo- her blouse open, chest exposed, caught in the warm, reckless intimacy of being captured by a camera husband's camera.

Her face turned red. "You weren't meant to get these back," she whispered, almost under her breath, staring at the screen.

"They were gone,"Irfan kept staring. He murmured, "Sometimes deleted isn't deleted."

"Software nowadays is very funny. Memory hangs on... even when we don't want it."

She spun around to face him. "You looked?

He met her eyes, unrepentant and composed. "I didn't have to search far, he remarked.

"Some things simply shine out, particularly the beautiful ones."

His tone seems suggestive.

"You had no right.", she said in protest.

He did not raise his voice. "You say that now. But if something wasn't meant to be seen... "He shrugged slightly. "Why maintain such a thing on a mobile?"

Stunned, she looked at him. Lowering his voice, he leaned forward a little. " Madam ji, don't worry. I'll act as though I never saw it, the same way you're pretending it doesn't matter to you.

Her mouth opened, but nothing came out. She simply remained there, quiet. Then, as though coming out of a daze, she picked up the phone, paid quickly, and started to go. "Thank you," she said in a flat voice.

----------------

Meenal's phone started giving the same problems after two days. The same annoying errors--freezing screen, blank screen, and restarting.

The logical step was to return to Irfan's shop since she had already paid for the repair, but the knowledge that he had seen her in those photos made her hesitate.

Her thumb had slipped as she attempted to delete those pictures from gallery last night. All these photos are now open.

A curvature of her hip where the saree had slackened. Her naked back in the selfie, meant for her only. Her topless photo in which she is holding her breasts as if offering to someone.

Irfan had seen those photos, and this awareness sent a chill through her spine.

It was not fair and unethical.

Still, it was also something else.

With Shame, she can feel wetness between her thighs. Trembling, she had shut the gallery down.

That morning, her blouse seemed more snug than normal. Underneath it, the bra was suffocating. Perhaps it was her skin that had grown too sensitive; every fabric brush was a reminder of something absent.

Eventually, after struggling with her ideas, she resolved to return to the shop--ignoring the flutter of anxiety.

The shop was almost empty. She entered to find the familiar aroma of old electronics and light incense welcoming her.

Looking up, Irfan grinned cheekily as if her visit was the last thing he expected with all that had transpired.

Meenal's cheeks reddened with a combination of embarrassment and something she wouldn't exactly identify.

Meenal coughed, attempting to control her voice. "It's again giving the same issues," she remarked, shoving the phone towards him."

"Freezing, Blank screen and restarting, just like before. I thought the problem was resolved, but........."

Irfan bent forward a little. "Sounds like it's tired. People and phones--occasionally both require some... attention to get going again."

Meenal blushed, attempting to remain composed.

"It's just the phone. Just the phone. Nothing else."

He picked up the phone gently. "Certainly. I'll handle it gently and softly. But you know, occasionally the deeper the issues more difficult to resolve."

Her eyebrows are raised.

I don't know what you mean?"

His eyes sparkled, mocking. "Oh, nothing..." It's only that the more you try to conceal, the more curious I become."

She gasped.

"Don't talk that way."

He murmured, "Your phone isn't the only thing getting hot around here."

She chuckled uncomfortably, nearly defensively.

"You look crazy."

He laughed. "Only with the ones that keep coming back."

"Sometimes, Madam ji, the best repair is not about mending what is broken but rather about discovering what is waiting to be uncovered."

"I came here to repair my phone, not to play games."

"Games? His grin grew slow and confident. "This is more like a dance. Every dance has its mysteries. You simply have to release control."

Her whisper arrived uninvited.

" I am not sure if I am ready for that."

"You don't have to be," he murmured, velvet-like voice.

"A gentle touch can sometimes create the most unexpected heat."

Her voice became firmer as she straightened.

" I am married and have a 5 years old son."

"I respect that. The sindoor, though, does not extinguish the fire. For some women, fire is like a second skin."

"You don't know me."

Softly, he said, "I know enough. The way you walked in that day--wet, breathless, clutching your phone as though it carried your secret. But now you are back. Though you were aware, I saw everything."

Her spine became rigid.

"Stop, I said."

He did not.

"You can leave. But perhaps your phone isn't the only thing that needs repairing."

She gasped.

He said, now professional again, "Sorting this out properly will take me a few days. Your phone will be ready for pickup in two days."

She nodded tightly. "Okay."

But his taunting grin and lingering look made her skin crawl. Unable to contain the rage any longer, she tightened her fists. "Enough," she said tersely.

Ignoring any response, she spun around and came out of the shop. The rain had ceased. But inside, her feelings were a tempest.

From a faraway street, the muted beat of Ganapati drums--joyful, chaotic--thudded; she only heard the echo of his words.

"You may leave. But sometimes your phone isn't the only item requiring repair."

Anger came up like stinging, quick bile. Who is he to talk like that? How can he gaze at her as if she were a cheap lady?"

" I am married and come from a respectable family."

"The sindoor, however, does not extinguish the fire."

She gasped.

His remarks disgusted her.

Her body still hummed. Shame, anger, and that undesired excitement.

The hardest part, though--the one she couldn't voice--was that some of her already desired to.