On Extending the Life of Objects

The Slow Death of Perfectly Useful Things

For years, I have typed fast, chasing thoughts before they escape. Then one afternoon this week, my keyboard decided to follow the Buddhist way of living - slow, intentional, deliberate.

I was eating dal and typing at the same time- delusionary multitasking. The universe waited till I lifted the bowl to my mouth- drinking dal straight from it to hasten the process, the bowl perfectly poised over the keyboard, my eyes on the screen. Yuk! is all I could say as the bowl tilted at the wrong angle, crashing on the keyboard, and a sea of hot sabut moong (whole moong beans) splashed all over.

The next hour was spent cleaning. When wet and dry rags failed to do the job, I had to call in the armoury. I removed the batteries and focussed on the increasingly delicate act of cleaning something I had never operated on earlier. Cotton swabs, sanitiser, toothpicks, pushing, prying, coaxing. The keys that felt slow, uneven, or did not spring back, needed minor surgery. I even popped off the caps and left the board inverted for a couple of hours to air out.

All this effort, and yet the , ; P keys and space bar have been behaving like teenagers, completely ignoring my instructions. I have to cajole them, repeat the action, tap again, so that typing, which once felt like an effortless act of simultaneity, is now a slow, deliberate exercise, like the creaking joints of an old woman.

It was suggested that I buy a cheap replacement keyboard online and be done with it. But my effort the whole week has been to extend the life cycle of things and prolong their usefulness.

What happened with the pair of scissors is nothing less than tragic. I saw the scissors on the dining table, the plastic thumb shattered into pieces, beyond the repairing power of any glue. The tool had no emotional value, but the blade was excellent, so my attempt was to make it workable again. The need was to find a replacement thumb loop.

There were no screws or holes to mechanically anchor the thumb, the plastic piece was ‘climbed ‘over the metal. For two days I tried every DIY trick that Google baba and YouTube devta (God) suggested- cloth, wires, even leather strap and strip of cycle tyre-tube, but nothing held.

One whole day the house help scouted all cycle-repair, tailor, hardware, welding shops, within the three km radius of our house. He could not find any orphan handles, scrap scissors, tiny clamps, silicone or plastic ready-made thumb loops, or even anybody ready to attempt saving it.

I had already tested the real world, and it had answered. It was maddening the way they kept saying ‘bekaar hai’ (it is useless).

Finally, to get a decisive answer, I showed it to the mechanical engineer in the house who had left it on the table in the cleanest delegation of guilt. I presented the victim, allowing the ‘lord’ a few minutes of problem-solving glory. The man with the technical degree, did not absolve it of its fate. Unlike the filmy decisive judges, he merely pronounced, “Abhi rakho, dekho, shayad koyi tareeqa nikal aaye.” (Keep it for now, maybe a way out will be found).

Now without the organ transplant, it lies in the drawer earmarked for sending things to the house-help’s village to see if it can be saved by the ironsmith there.

Then he asked me what I had done with the eau de toilette bottle he had given. I got this distinct feeling that I, not he, was the structural engineer in the family.

The atomiser had broken but the perfume was to be saved. Not whether it made sense to save it, only how. So, I tried. I watched YouTube videos, read Reddit/Quora threads. I spoke to several strangers who spoke with the calm authority of people who have transferred liquids before. 

I learnt about syringes, funnels, and the many opinions ‘experts’ had about decanting fragrance. I tried to pry the scrimp loose with a nail file, a knife, a pair of scissors, a sewing needle, but it was adamant as if I was attacking its dignity. I even bought a refillable atomizer. Eventually, I turned the murderer, broke the neck of the bottle and transferred the EDT into another bottle. The perfume survived. Order was restored.

So, along with the proof of the effort, I showed the replacement to him wondering if decanting perfume was a life skill he assumed I had learned at birth. It now lives a downgraded life without a colour, name or label, on his bathroom shelf.

Meanwhile, the engineer got up, his flip-flops clapping the floor, to his desk and back. He dropped a pile of papers before me. “Tum use karti ho, tumhare liye hain.” (You use these, they are for you) and asked for coffee in the same breath.

I checked, all used A-4 sheets, with one side blank. I calmly took out the red refill of the ballpen I am still trying to use to its end after a child broke the pen, and put the paper among the other things in my charge as the careful steward in the house.

There’s nothing noble about it. It is not hoarding, jugaad, or recycling that I am doing. It is just me loitering, somewhat pettily, around the landfill with my belongings.                                                                                                   

                                                                                                - Anupama S Mani