Life with Kabir was… how do I put it?
Like riding a rollercoaster blindfolded, some days thrilling, some days stomach-flipping and some days where you wonder if your straps will survive.
In the beginning, I was royalty. Kabir polished my zippers till they gleamed, dusted me with a soft cloth, and even talked to me in whispers as if I were a baby. “You and me, Zippy,” he’d say, “we’re going to rule the school.” And rule we did.
The first week was pure bliss. Only the neatest books, carefully packed lunch and a small pencil box lived inside me. I strutted down the school corridors, my bright blue fabric shining, my straps sitting perfectly on Kabir’s shoulders. I caught other bags staring. “Premium model,” I’d whisper to myself smugly. “Imported zipper, designer stitching. Yep, I’m special.”
Then came the loading days. One Monday morning, Kabir stuffed me with six heavy textbooks, a water bottle the size of a toddler, his cricket bat handle (don’t ask why) and - because why not - a box of art supplies that smelled faintly of glue. I groaned under the weight. “Am I a bag or a moving truck?” I muttered. That day I survived the bumpy ride to school purely on willpower.
But then came the funny days. Once, Kabir forgot to close my front zipper properly. As he ran to class, his homework flew out page by page like dramatic confetti. We didn’t even realise until his teacher asked, “Kabir, where is your homework?” He glanced at me accusingly as if I had decided to shred it myself. I wanted to say, “Don’t blame me, Mr. Royalty, you’re the one who left my mouth open!”
There were proud days too. During art class, Kabir showed me off to his friends. “Look at these extra compartments,” he bragged, zipping and unzipping me like I was a celebrity on a red carpet. I puffed up with pride, thinking I was the school’s most important bag. For a short time, I acted like it too—turning my zippers up at older, worn-out bags in the rack.
But life has a funny way of teaching you humility. One rainy day, Kabir left me on the wet playground while he chased a football. I sat there in the drizzle, my fabric soaking, my straps sagging, watching a frayed old bag offer its dry spot under the shelter to a smaller bag. I realised I had been a bit of a snob. Premium or not, I was just a bag and every bag’s job was the same: to carry, to protect, to serve.
There were poor days too, days when Kabir stuffed in sweaty sports clothes without a cover or a leaky lunchbox that filled my compartments with the smell of rajma curry for a week. Once, he even forgot me in the school bus overnight. I spent the night lying on a cold floor surrounded by biscuit crumbs and the faint smell of socks.
And yet… for every rough day, there was a warm one. The mornings when Kabir would pat me gently before heading out. The afternoons when he’d carry me home carefully, as if I were treasure. The times he’d clean me up after a messy day, muttering, “Sorry, Zippy, I’ll be careful next time.”
I learned something important in those days: love isn’t about being treated perfectly all the time. It’s about the fact that even after the spills, the overloads, the rainy days and the bus-floor sleepovers, Kabir still slung me over his shoulder each morning and said, “Let’s go, Zippy.”
And every time he did, my zippers smiled.