A red crochet star stitched tote bag, hanging from a doddery old pink bicycle handle, was the best place I ever belonged to. She was 16 and I don’t remember how old I’m. She probably got an innocent yet confident look from her mother, got her daddy’s tongue and temper. Her mouth fails to use a filter most of the time. I often wondered, God might have shook his head the day he built her, but I bet he smiled. Sometimes she slipped and I found drops of mud on my cover. But looking at her broad, beautiful smile, her pink dress turned mud spattered, I realised a little grime never hurt. I was in love with her tangled hair decorated with yellow, purple and red country flowers. I was happy to be owned by her. She grew up with me. She used to turn my pages and devour the feel of each word she read while waiting at that coffee shop down the street. She would murmur the melancholic lines written on my pages,
“I Promise I’ll Dance In Every Rain – You Say You Like I’ll Hold Those Drops of Tear – You’re There To Wipe You’re Always With Me – I Never Thought To Miss You You Keep me In Your Heart – Trust Me
I Am Just As You..
I’ll Cry Those Deepest Pain
I’ll Defeat Your Sorrows – Your Fears Again
I’ll Love as a Fairy – I’ll Never leave You In Hurry
Can I Smile – Without You In My Life?
A Dark Sunset OR A Bright Sunrise
A Love Or A Broken Promise !”
I always feel amused by hearing my own words from her. I’m sure human often calls this sensation as ‘butterflies in stomach’. If you would take a peek at her mug, you would see the non-dairy creamier floating on top because she was kind of engrossed into my words already. Lost in a world of my vocables. She used to clean the slightest dust spots from my sheets and turn to read the next. Sit down. She might give you a glare, as most girls who read, do not like to be interrupted. Ask her if she likes anonymous books. Buy her another cup of coffee. Let her know what you really think about the love of the words. Understand that if she says she understood James Joyce’s Ulysses, she’s just saying that to sound intelligent. Ask her if she loves Alice or she would like to be Alice. Then she would turn her head, smile and talk to you. Aah! I know Jessica more than anyone. I was with her all these years right before the day I went missing.
I was no where to be found. I was somewhere far from her reach but I could feel an impression of her presence. I’m sure she would have felt the same way. I was wanting the svelte touch of her thin fingers on my verso. A thought frightened me that she wouldn’t recall where she lost me. Or probably She would replace me. But I’m just a book. No matter how hard I try, I could never reach to her again unless someone carries me to her.
She believed that wisdom fly’s away if someone keeps a book open without reading it. I realised that I was open to the high wind. The fast flipping of my pages with the hit of a gale was making me petrified of being ripped. The whirlwind was hitting hard and all the thing I wanted to hold on to was my wisdom. It was foolish of me but trusting her foolishness and repeating so was quite comforting. I remember the last time she forgot me at her tree house and stopped eating for days till her mum finally found me. I was amused how a 6 years old girl could fall in love with an old book. That day I found a true reader in her and she chose me as her favourite piece of treatise. And now I wonder how attached I’m to a human. That night she was reading few lines till she fell asleep holding me close to her heart. And I heard her heart singing,
“I Feel Like I Cry Loud In Midnight- I Scream Thinking, Prince In Pain I Hate That Cruel Enemy Of His Love Thought To Kill Him In My Brain.
You Value Alot To Me – Then How You Went Lost
I Love Your
Soon I’ll Grow To Be A Writer
My Dear Book ! Hold On To Me – I’m Not The Waste.”
She started with her mission search operation, soon after I was lost. This time she could not find me. I was there laying in nowhere. I was trying hard to save my pages and all those precious words written on them so that when she finally finds me, I could be useful again. When the tempest hit my recto, I could clearly smell the sweetness of corns. It was probably the countryside corn field that she used to cross everyday while going to school. I remembered the same scent I inhaled almost everyday, laying in her bag. I was abandoned. I was lost. That night I watched the stars twinkling and trying to talk to me. Words started panicking in a fear that they would probably loose their meaning of existence. They would be forgotten.
I don’t remember how many days and nights I spent there on the grass texture of the corn field. I often had many dreams about her. The glitch of her foot steps, walking towards me would wake me up at night. I would imagine her picking all of the torn pages laying here and there, holding me close to her face and inhaling the fragrance of an old library from the corner of my pages – just the way she used to do. I would wake up being panic stricken and each time I would find my threadbare sheets asking me silently for her address so that they could detach themselves from me and fly to her with the wind flows. I found one of my shabby torn sheet laying close to me and started reading the words written on that,
“You Told Me To See Myself Through Your Eyes – I Did you Bowed Me To Hang Myself In Your Arms – I Did
You loved me; I Felt Shy For You
You Hurt me; I Felt Cry For You
‘love Me – Miss me – Like Me – kiss Me’
Whatever You Said, I Did That for you.
But You Told ‘FORGET ME’
You Live In My Soul
This Time Should I Leave Myself For You!”
That Spring was long gone, so was the fragrance of ripen corn. I gave up on some more folios and words and paragraphs of memories of my lifetime. I got a coat of mire yet I protected myself from being a dross. A bunch of Autumn leaves guarded my ragged pages from the mild Wintry snow. I was still holding on to my hope. I was no more a complete book as I was torn by fickle wind and scattered around me – some flew quite a far away. I was laying there with a hope that the sheets would get her address somehow and fly to her. Probably they would guide her walk to this corn field. And finally Summer had arrived. I hoped her to come to the forest as she spent every summer of her life, reading me, down the branches of those tall trees. But she didn’t come. I understood, she wouldn’t come to the forest anymore as she lost her companion, the book, thats me. While waiting, I was reading each and every words written on the pages, before whirlwind takes that away.
“Hold Strong To Dreams For If Dreams Die Book Is A Wingless Bird – That Can’t Fly. Hold Strong To Dreams For When Dreams Go
Life Is A Corn Field – Frozen With The Snow.”
Monsoon arrived and I gave up on the last frayed piece of sheet. I had no sorrow of turning into mud but the thought of never found by her was hunting. I belonged to her and now, I was giving up on my existence, whispering the last words before the page flew away with a gale.
“I’ll Search You In Every Tired Lips I’ll Find You In Every Dead Leaves I Get You No Where, I’m Vanishing – You Are Lost
In Pearl’s Lovely Bones,
Or In Ela’s Wet Blossoms.
I’ll Search You With Every Torn Sheet
I’ll Wait For You Till We Meet
Wherever You Go
I’ll Love You Until The Last Sunset.”
Now that I was no more. I lost my name. I was no more a Book. I was having no physical existence. I had no magical words anymore to make a little girl put an effort to find me. I has no pages with the fragrance of an old library. I was over, as the last chapter of my own contents. And then,
On one fine day, I found myself. I was decorated with some new words, though many of my old familiar words were replaced with new phrases. The sheets weren’t old anymore. There was no scent of an old library coming from my corner lines. I could sense the fragrance of the freshly printed ink and excited words giggling at me. I was alive again. That day I realised I am The Book and The Book never dies. My words were remembered by her. I was memorised by the girl who owned me for 10 long years. She kept me alive all the time. I understood, its not only me who knows her completely. She believed, read and remembered each of my words, statements, paragraphs, pages and the whole me. I found a short but my favourite line printed in the end,