My 3G Android was at it again. ‘Storage full’, it kept on reminding me, and this was getting on my nerves. The first time this happened, I had ignored it.
It was like, what’s the big deal? But when it started warning that it might not be possible to save photos, I saw red. How could I post all my clicks on Facebook (FB) effortlessly?
My OMG Senior Girls — yes, OMG because we were tech-savvy senior girls — chipped in with their tips. It was as if I had asked for some recipes.
‘You delete all the WhatsApp videos.’‘Copy all that you want to your PC using the cable (!). Then delete all the files.’‘My SD card is always full. It may be your problem too. Check.’I followed their advice. Each worked for a maximum of one week. After that, it was the same story all over again. I had no choice now but to bring in my son.
It was like an online tutorial, with him giving instructions from a faraway location and his mother meekly following them. A reversal of roles maybe. One by one, my online e-commerce apps were uninstalled. But his ‘ahs’ and ‘oops’ were infectious, and I also got hooked to ‘Operation Clean Up’. Finally, sufficient space was released and both of us heaved a sigh of relief. But lo, this also lasted for one week. The warning popped up again: ‘Your storage is full.’
“Ah, I got it,” there was delight in his voice. Another tutorial and out went my FB from the mobile. Having been stripped of almost all my favourite apps, I could now understand how a defenceless Abhimanyu would have felt inside the chakravyuha.
“How will I check my FB every now and then?” My protest was, even to my ears, only a whimper.
“Don’t worry, amma. You can always log in through Chrome.” He and I knew it was cumbersome. I shed a silent tear while thinking of the greater sacrifices I had made. He helped me instal another app to clean the mess every now and then, and its swoosh sound was quite fascinating, and helped me drown my sorrow.
Everything is quiet now on my mobile front. The Senior Girls look upon me as an expert in installing and uninstalling apps. “Sree, thanks, da. Your apps did the trick,” I gush over.
“It’s not apps, amma. It’s appa. He was piqued about your face always buried inside those apps, especially FB! Now you’re talking more, aren’t you? And less purchases too! But for him, I would have done something else to free up more space!” He chuckles from the other side. Sure. A clean surgical strike. But when the strikes are from within, you don’t dare to protest.
