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No One Cares For Me

by Sanjoy Dutt
(Portland, OR, USA)

I stand alone in the corner of a room like an unknown, unrecognized soldier.

My parents, grandparents and I were born in the same place, India. My grandparents were the medium of many secret communications and my parents were linked with some great artwork. Today I am used for carrying many things. Once the transportation is done I am useless, awaiting to be released in the garbage. I will never get the respect or admiration my ancestors got.

My grandparents were born white, had the rare distinction of receiving the touch of Mahatma Gandhi. This assured they will never be ignored; just as the legend of Gandhi himself. Efforts are made to keep them healthy and alive in a national museum.

One evening, Pacita Abad, the famous painter, discovered my parents in a shop. They traveled with her to the Philippines and enjoyed her precious romantic attention. She played with them, her delicate stroke of brushes made them precious. Few years later they were dressed stylishly and had no problem in finding a new home. Now they welcome the guests in a corporate house.

I was born colored, unlike my ancestors, and was picked up along with my friends by an artist. At a workshop, I was folded and glued by the street children sitting under a tree and ultimately found myself hanging in a gift shop at the airport. My heart danced with joy when a lady bought me before boarding her flight to the US. I said to myself, "I will be as memorable as my ancestors."

Alas, I was entrusted to safe keep some linen. At the end of the flight, I was thrown into a car trunk. After a short trip in darkness, I saw the light. Inside the house, everybody appreciated the linen I carefully carried for twenty hours.

I am a 'handmade' paper bag, inconveniently standing alone, abandoned in the corner of a room.

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