Me, a box - a plain wooden boxMe, I am a box – a wooden box. I am a plain box, with no embellishments or paint. And yet, today I feel big, bigger than any other type of box. I may not weigh a thousand tonnes, and yet I know I am the heaviest of them all. There is nothing grandiose about me. And yet, I can tell I am the most prized box today.
Did I say no embellishment – wait there it comes – a name and a number – on a piece of paper – stuck on my side. I may not be magnificent, yet now I am the most beautiful. I feel a surge of pride rise through me; the plain embellishment makes me special. All eyes are upon me, now - moist eyes, eyes of pride, eyes of commitment, eyes filled with rage and eyes that seek revenge.
I am hoisted above the ground now, floating in the air, sitting precariously on strong shoulders, dressed in epaulettes that shine. I think it is almost the end now, and yet, each measured step announces to me that there can be no end.
I am put down now on a cold cement slab, yet the ice cold body encased within me burns me with its warmth. A hero rests within me - a martyr, slain ruthlessly. His story is one of valour and courage. He put his life on the line, fighting for us, protecting what is yours and mine.
I feel a lump in my throat now, as I am sheathed in the national flag – I feel goose bumps all over me. I become immaterial now; the flag drapes not me, but the hero, who laid down his life for you and for me. He finally rests inside me, yet he lives inside every heart that beats in the name of my motherland.
The hero's heart no longer beats now, and yet a million hearts thump, in unison, in his name.
Wreaths deck me now, and I can smell their sweet scent, yet nothing compares to the sweetest fragrance of them all – the fragrance of courage, of heroism and of gallantry. There is nothing sweeter than the smell of the true spirit of patriotism – a patriotism that makes one take a bullet in the chest.
The bugles sound the 'Last Post' now, and as the guns are lowered in salute it's time to say the final goodbye. The nails are finally hammered into me – I hold a precious treasure.
I am lowered into the ground now, as the shouts of 'Bharat Mata ki Jai' vibrate in the air. Six feet under the ground, I lay covered in dust. Deep within me, I feel something stir – the slain soldier is not dead yet, he lives and his dreams resonate in every Indian's heart.
This is my entry for the creative writing contest - Me, a box.