Sunday, January 09, 2011
Note: This blog post is a short story, presented in two capsules. The present blog post presents the first half of the short story.
Everyone has their own story to narrate, and I have mine. I am a Tissue, and this is my story...I come soaked in rose water with scented fragrance, packaged in a thin plastic wafer…tear along its serrations and I am ready for use.
Today, I want to share my story. A story, that was far different from what my peers were used for. A couple of months ago, I was born in a small factory on the west coast, and I was shipped to mid-west, and was stacked along with others from my fraternity…ready for sale. While waiting to be picked up, I heard from other tissues around me, that most of the time we are used to carry the dirt and grease that our owners greedily wish to get rid of; of course no one really knew their definite use.
One day, I was pushed onto the front row, since others ahead of me were picked up. A lady, probably in her mid 20’s, lean and short with long hair…talking on her phone, pushed me and a couple others into her cart, in a rush and dragged on. As I sat on the upper clip of the cart, I started to notice my owner. A wheat complexioned young woman, dark brown eyes and black curly hair (straight at the roots) falling down on her shoulders. She was on the phone all through with her mushy talk, until she reached the billing desk. She said a sweet bye, and flipped her phone. As the guy on the other side of the counter, started to tag each item in her cart, she had an innocent face with a mischievous smile…and started to flirt with him. I was put into a shopping bag, and I never knew what happened after that, until I was pulled out from it and put in a container on the bathroom rack along with others.
Every night, she carried the container into the living room, and placed it beside herself. She cried, mostly aloud and in silence at times. Day after day, me along with others, waited patiently, listening to her, seeing her cry, until we were picked up. We could do nothing, except for feeling sorry for her…and helping her in our role, in a small way. I always believed that, my job was of a noble doing, since I was of some help to someone to let go their dirt, grease or may be their grief too. As we sat in the container, I wondered what event put my owner through such turmoil, that she needed us, ones with fragrance to comfort her, rather than our peers who came without any fragrance, and as I was told earlier were more suited for her need.
One day, she came running towards the rack, picked up our container and ran into the living room. She emptied our container, and all of us fell to the floor. Today her emotions were out of control, far worse than usual and she was weeping probably from long. She picked up one of us closer to her reach, and pulled out the tissue frantically and wiped her eyes and face clean. As she bundled up our friend into a rag-ball and threw it onto the ground, I heard a faint shout from it, “Her Soul smells worse, more than what I could handle with my fragrance… may be I am the worst used in my community”.
She hurried into picking us one after the other, and yet her grief had no end. After a while, she got up and looked around to find a letter that was crippled. She picked it up, and sat down on the floor closer to me….
… to be continued.
Place: Giza, Egypt
Date: 7th Jan 2011