I was made out of clay by the greatest works man. He put me in his shop not to sell me but to gift me to someone who could cherish and love me for all his life. Many passers by came, glanced at me and walked on. There were a few however, who stopped by and picked me up. They were the ones with an eye for detail. Perhaps there was something in me that intrigued them. Perhaps there was something in me that provoked them. Perhaps there was something about me that fascinated them. Or perhaps they were merely interested in my durability and nothing else.
And so they came inside the shop. They picked me up. They swayed, twirled and twisted me, playing with my strings. They broke a few, lost a few. They pulled on my limbs just to hear a few cracks. They played with my hair. They wanted to know if it was real. They rubbed my lips on the walls to see the pretty red colour. Their bewilderment and curiosity of a child took them to explore every inch of my surface. For some, it was the most overwhelming joy to play with a doll for the first time. Some already had a few.
Later they put me back just the way they had found me. They moved on then. Their satisfaction was tagged with a number. Some had found me very play full. They gave me five out of five. I knew they would return again for a few more rounds. Some on the other hand, had found me completely useless. Perhaps I was unable to give them what they wanted of me. They grew indifferent to me just after a few rounds. I was given nothing from that lot. Perhaps I had failed to mesmerize them. Perhaps I wasn’t their type of doll. Perhaps I was just too inferior to their likes. Perhaps I was simply a bore. Mind you, they did touch me inspecting how flexible I was in their hands in the beginning. I guess the tantalizing sensation of my body against their palm soon faded away.
And so they put me back. They moved on.
I seemed intact but only my maker knew how badly I had been damaged. He created me with such love and care that all the other things seemed so trivial in those moments of his fine creation. He was proud of what he had created. It was all for only one reason; to gift me to some one. No one bothered to take me. Perhaps I should have been named something else instead of being called a “doll”.
Perhaps I made myself too available. After all I was lying on the shelf unwrapped. Yes, perhaps my maker should have wrapped me, unseen to others, hidden to their eyes . But he was afraid that I may die of asphyxia. After all he had created me for every one to see me and marvel at the intricacy of my delicate features. He knew there would be the one who would come one day to his shop, look at me, and take me with him without even touching me. He would be the one to be the most grateful of his creation. He would be the one to decorate me just like the way my creator had. He would be the one to love me just how my creator did. He would indeed know the true worth of cherishing something.
I in return would give him the world of my unspoken love. But you see, now that I’m daggy and torn, that some one will pass by without even noticing me. I will remain where I am now and rust away towards my end.
I am not too sure whether it was my responsibility to seek my own home or was it my creator accountable for my true destination. All I know is that I am ragged and decomposing in my own tatters and shreds. All I fear is that some one may pass by and pull on my aching strings again. All I seek is my end. Nothing less. Nothing more. Nothing else.
26.03.04
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