Broken
I just have been announced as dead. Me, my
body is very hot now. In fact, I am famous for being hot. People like
to stare at me and hold me in their hands lasciviously. Yes, I am that
hot. But it is not true that I am always hot like this. Sometimes I
wash myself in cool water. To be true, I wash myself in every 30
minutes, for I am manhandled in every 20 minutes interval. They order me
and my owner listens accordingly. He washes me, then makes me hot
─because people like me preheated. Then I am prepared for serving, with a
little heat here, a little sugar there and then some quivering and
shivering and shaking.
The customers then light up a cigarette and kiss
me on my fragile and moist body, with their smoky lips. They devour
me in open daylight, for they are too bold to do anything in secrecy.
They have complained about me a few times ─I repeat, only a few times─
for my height, for I am quite tall for them. But different people
have different tastes. Many customers like short ones, because they
can hold them entirely, they feel like they can en-capture and absorb
the whole body in a dominant position. I think they want to feel
superior. But who doesn’t?
Today, when I've been declared as dead, my
owner is not sad at all, rather, very angry because it has caused him
loss in his investment. He's started blurting abusive words to the
killer. Oh, forgive me. I’ve forgotten to mention that it's not any
natural death; it's a murder. An unintentional and accidental murder.
I’ll tell you later why it's accidental. You know, I am feeling
delirious during my last minutes and can’t remember everything
chronologically. Everything I remember is a combination of different
memories, entangled together with other blurred events in an obscure
way. I would be cremated soon and I don’t have much time to talk more
with you. But I so want to talk with someone like you, who listens my
unworthy talks with such attentiveness. But what can I do other than
bade you goodbye and vanish from this world? Because every soul needs
to rest in peace.
Before going, let me tell you why the murder is
an accident. The customer has held me and talking with someone about
some political issue. As the conversation has progressed, it has got
heated up and he's absentmindedly left hold of me. And then I've
fallen and I found myself broken into pieces, for I am simply made of
glass, a glass in a roadside teashop in which hundreds of people
drinks tea every day. My owner, I mean the owner of the shop is very
poor and it costs him 10 rupees for a glass. It's normal for him to be
angry. It's normal for me to be thrown in garbage and recycled.
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