Between the lines

Books are a human's best companion. I think most books are destined to be a human's mate. They call it "favoritism", but I know it's a bond between humans and us. Yes, I'm a book, and  I too have a journey unique like the others..

I remember when my human met me. I was a token of love and luck, gifted to Andy by his mother when he was only 12. She had said, "This is something I wanted to give you. You are going to be a man soon. I hope this will help you through everything. I love you." Andy never left me then, reading me when there was just a small streak of light from the old bulb, and reading me till hours in the early morning. He was a little rough at first, sleeping on me where my pages were drenched in drool, or dropping me and letting his brother treat me ill. I was not in the best condition before either. I was a...I think they call it "hand-me-down". When my sheets were fresh and my cover still glistening with lustre, I was placed in the storage for a long time. The fancier books with shinier or non-defective covers would go away quickly. But I had a small stain on my cover and I apparently was not worthy enough.

When the dust coated me brown, I was harshly wiped and sent to a more run-down place. I found a human, but she was seemingly not happy with me since she threw me in the bin with rotting orange peels and pencil shavings. Small dirty specks of brown had deposited on me, but I think it is how we are treated normally, right?

I remember the rather rough period when I was just lying there, in the dull, dark and dirty, waiting.. and then Andy's Mom found me. She reconstructed me in places necessary, taped my..."wounds" humans say? and got me presentable to give her child. And for some reason despite my degrading condition, he seemed so happy with me.With some mishaps while handling me, he learnt he had to take better care of me to make me last. He would sleep with me and read me while he chomped bell peppers he told his mom he "hated". He would take me to school and flaunt me. I felt so ..important..

His mother passed away soon after. Andy cried in my pages. He used to tell his father that I was his mother's last gift, that he would forever cherish me and keep me with him. On his mother's funeral he stood there, tightly hugging me to his chest and not uttering a syllable, not moving an inch. He suddenly looked as broken as I was. In the next few months he only read me. He would sit in a corner with me and often weep over me, wetting the 'k's and the 'u's in my pages. But it was okay. I was his saviour as his mom was for me. He would be okay some day.

The day came when he was on my last page. His eyes running through the pale yellow paper, drinking in the words printed on page number 457. The moment was heated, tension running thick in the atmosphere. He focused on the last word and then "BAM" closed me shut. He left a sigh of relief he seemed to be holding for a long time. Soon after he would look outside his window pensively, or look over my dimensions and flip the pages rapidly wearing a hopeful look that something good would come out of it. But nothing did. He started spending lesser time with me and more with his other friends. I became more like a piece on the shelf and a trophy to show off.

Eventually he grew up. I was no more his solid companion through thick and thin. I was in a cupboard under heaps of clothes sometimes, and camouflaged amidst books of science and geography sometimes. I was suddenly more of a liability and the fear of being discarded haunted me.

I saw Andy bring home a girl. His eyes would light up and he would smile fondly in her presence. He used to bring me up sometimes and she would too get happy about me. I remember when he told her he "loved" her.. What a foreign word. His mother used to say it to him, tucking both of us in bed when she was there. His dad would often look at his mother's picture and say the same thing in a heavy voice. In a year's time that girl started staying home full time and Andy would often express his "love". Very soon a small Andy ran around, jumping and making noises I never knew were made. It was so different. It was like seeing a smaller version of Andy. They called him Ben. Ben became a big brother when he was only 3 years to a girl named Mia. She looked like my previous owner, but she was more humble.

Andy became more successful, shifting to bigger houses and get fancier things. I was sitting in a fancy glass shelf now, not a shaft of wood. So many other books would accompany me, but no one witnessed Andy's growth like me. One day he took me and gave me to Ben telling the exact same thing Andy's mother told Andy. Ben too took me everywhere, but all too soon I was left behind for some rich helicopter toy he got. I was back to my old place in the shelf, the only difference was I was more tattered than the rest of my fellow books.

Mia and Ben grew up, staying with their partners who they "loved" and making mini Bens and mini Mias. Andy came seldom and stood in front of the shelf, looking at me with a sad glint in his eyes. Andy was so different now, his skin hung loosely at spots on his face and he had a big belly. There was a small patch of grey hair on his head and he would walk taking support from various places. He had aged a happy man, but I know every time he saw me remembered his mother.

One day he finally removed me rather unstably from the shelf. He brushed away the dust and gazed at my cover. The way he looked at me was as though I was a fresh and healthy book, but I think we both knew we had aged immensely. He sat with me in his rocking chair, reading and laughing at the words on me like he read me for the first time. He did this for a week. Finally on the 7th day when he was on the last page, it suddenly struck him. The look of understanding took over his features. It was like he got the answer to a question he was asking from years. He drifted to sleep then, keeping the last page open on his full belly, and I embraced him after reminding myself of years I spent with him. Eventually, the small rhythmic rise of his chest flattened, and he just lied like that with me spread over. I looked over the time I have known and seen him grow. The time I have been with him when he needed me the most. Maybe it is not about soul-mates for us books. Maybe it is about how we are perceived and read between the lines.And maybe "love" is the word used when someone could read between the lines of another person's story. I loved Andy. We were two damaged pieces who found solace in each others company. I was at peace in that moment, and I think he was too.

*Note: I hope people understand the hidden metaphors between the lines.