The last step of my physical creation - my covers are glued. I join the pile of my clones. Soon afterwards, I travel in the dark world of a carton’s inside and find myself on the shelf of a warehouse. These aren’t the kind of shelves we used to be destined for. There are whispers of a new world - e-commerce.
After many
weeks (or is it months?) I am moved. From the shelf into a room where many
hands are busy packing all sorts of things. A bubble wrap tickles me, and
another layer of cover sends me in dark again. I feel myself flung to a corner.
Another movement and I land in a moving thing. The road journey is bumpy. At
the end of it, I find myself in a bag. The bag travels on a motorcycle. In the
middle of many tall buildings, we stop. The boy gets into an elevator, rings a
doorbell and passes me over to another set of hands.
He unpacks
me, caresses my cover, and places me on a shelf with the others.
I wait.
A few years
later I and others on the shelf are boxed and when we are put back on the shelf
we are in a new room. He is still around. This time there is another person in
the house. A female. This room is nicer though.
Still, I
wait.
A few years
later the room changes again. It’s a new city altogether. I can see through the
window and there are trees outside. And birds! Early morning sun peeks into the
room.
Still, I
wait.
That
morning finally arrives. With the rising of a new sun, he picks me from the
shelf and walks to the balcony and opens me. I am dizzy with the feeling of
being alive.
That
evening I hear him say. “Raman, this has been with me for over eight years.
This morning I opened it. And this evening Hilary Mantel is dead!”
But how can she be? I am alive. I am her.
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