The day started with a knock on the door of her penthouse. Rubbing her eyes and wearing a night gown, she stepped out of her room to see who was there at the door. It was cold and her bare feet on cold marble made her shiver more. As she opened the door, there was a box. A cardboard box that looked somewhat worn out of edges. She grinned ear to ear because she was aware about what was inside the box. She looked for the courier boy who must have come to deliver the box but she found none. Shrugging her shoulders she saw her name on the box, "Rabia Kaushal." She nodded to herself as if to tell that the box is right and it belonged to her. As she was about to push the box inside her home, she heard a sudden voice, "Ma'am sign here before taking the parcel." Rabia signed on the piece of paper as the right owner of the parcel and pushed the box inside.
Finally locking the door behind she gave a sigh. She couldn't wait to open the box and sniff. Sniff? Well, yes, she was fond of sniffing. No, she wasn't a dog. She went to the kitchen and brought a knife. Carefully she unpacked the large box and removed the bubble wrap. Next what she saw was enough to make her extremely joyous. There were books, old and new. There were books of every size. There were hardbound books and the paper back too. The box was full of it. Finally, she had them in her hands. Those were his Appa's (Father's) books. On the top of it was a book that she admired the most as a kid. "The Little Prince," the title of the book said. She fluttered the pages and sniffed. She picked out every book from the box and sniffed. She looked at the books and felt the pages. The aroma was pleasurable, more pleasurable than a cheese burst pizza.
Smiling wide, there was a twinkle in her eyes. The twinkle was due to the moistness in her eyes. She said to herself, "Why does every book smell different?" That's what she used to ask her Appa when she was a little girl. She remembered what her Appa used to answer,"Rabia every book smell differently because every book has a different character and every character has a different feeling. the prince in your story book is young and vibrant, the detective in my book is master mind. And that Cinderalla's step mom in your book? She is wicked. The book smells differently because of the characters."
Rabia always used to listen her Appa's answer carefully but still she couldn't understand it well. Her heart demanded something more. Books for Rabia were more than a bundle of pages inked with words. That morning, she was sitting on the ice cold floor but still not shivering. She could feel her Appa's warmth. She could feel it in her blood.
Finally locking the door behind she gave a sigh. She couldn't wait to open the box and sniff. Sniff? Well, yes, she was fond of sniffing. No, she wasn't a dog. She went to the kitchen and brought a knife. Carefully she unpacked the large box and removed the bubble wrap. Next what she saw was enough to make her extremely joyous. There were books, old and new. There were books of every size. There were hardbound books and the paper back too. The box was full of it. Finally, she had them in her hands. Those were his Appa's (Father's) books. On the top of it was a book that she admired the most as a kid. "The Little Prince," the title of the book said. She fluttered the pages and sniffed. She picked out every book from the box and sniffed. She looked at the books and felt the pages. The aroma was pleasurable, more pleasurable than a cheese burst pizza.
Smiling wide, there was a twinkle in her eyes. The twinkle was due to the moistness in her eyes. She said to herself, "Why does every book smell different?" That's what she used to ask her Appa when she was a little girl. She remembered what her Appa used to answer,"Rabia every book smell differently because every book has a different character and every character has a different feeling. the prince in your story book is young and vibrant, the detective in my book is master mind. And that Cinderalla's step mom in your book? She is wicked. The book smells differently because of the characters."
Rabia always used to listen her Appa's answer carefully but still she couldn't understand it well. Her heart demanded something more. Books for Rabia were more than a bundle of pages inked with words. That morning, she was sitting on the ice cold floor but still not shivering. She could feel her Appa's warmth. She could feel it in her blood.
