At first, I didn’t notice it.
Why would I? Life with Kabir was still rolling along. We still went to school together, still shared our usual ups and downs. But little changes have a sneaky way of creeping in without announcing themselves.
The first clue came when Kabir began leaving me at home on Saturdays. “Just a small cricket match, Zippy. You don’t need to come,” he said casually. I told myself it was fine. Bags need rest days too, right? But as I sat in the corner of his room, I couldn’t help wondering why his new drawstring sports bag got to go instead.
Then there was the day he bought a new pencil case. Not the small, friendly one I was used to carrying, but a shiny, oversized one with its own compartments and zippers. It didn’t even need me, it came with its own handle. I tried not to take it personally, but I could feel my zippers sag just a little.
Some days were still good. He’d sling me over his shoulder and we’d walk to school like old times. I’d hear him humming, and I’d think, “See? Nothing’s changing.” But then, there were the other days—the ones where he’d toss me on the floor after school, books spilling out like I was just another storage box.
One afternoon, he forgot to unpack me entirely. I spent the whole night with a half-eaten banana in my front pocket. By morning, it had gone from banana to… something science experiments are made of. I told myself this was just an accident. Kabir loved me. He did.
But then came the shopping trip. Kabir and his mother walked into a big, glittering store, the kind with shelves of gleaming new bags. I felt nervous the moment I saw it. Sure enough, Kabir’s eyes lit up at the sight of a black-and-red “sports edition” bag with silver zippers. He touched it the way he used to touch me. My straps tightened instinctively.
“Not now,” his mother said, glancing at the price tag. I relaxed. But the way Kabir looked back at that bag… I knew I’d seen that look before. I’d once been on the receiving end of it.
From then on, the fade was impossible to ignore. I went from being the bag to being a bag. The sports bag got the matches, the small sling bag got the weekend outings, and I—Zippy—was left for school days only.
And then one evening, I heard him mutter to his friend, “This bag’s getting smelly, stained and… kind of patchy.”
Smelly? Stained? My zippers rattled in protest. Those weren’t just stains, they were battle scars! The curry leak from lunch that one monsoon day? That was from his lunchbox. The faint ink blot on my side? From the time he forgot to close his pen. And the slightly frayed patch near my base? From being dragged across the playground when he decided I’d make an excellent goalpost.
If it were up to me, I’d keep myself spotless and fresh forever. I wasn’t the one making the mess. But try explaining that to a human boy.
That weekend, he barely touched me. I sat in the corner of his room, watching dust gather on my straps. I tried to remind myself of all the adventures we’d had, of the corridors we’d ruled, the rainy days we’d survived, the proud moments and the silly ones.
It was strange. I wasn’t angry at Kabir. I still loved him, in that loyal way only a bag can love its person. But I could feel the space between us widening. And deep down, I knew: when people stop reaching for you first, they’ve already started letting go.
I didn’t know where I’d end up next. Maybe in a cupboard, maybe in another home, maybe… nowhere. But one thing was certain, I wasn’t ready to be forgotten. Not yet.
My zippers still had stories left to tell.