I have just been announced dead. But I still have my final breaths in me. My body is very hot now. In fact (nice fact), I am famous for being piping hot. People like to stare at me and hold me in their hands lasciviously. My smooth and curvy body is often a matter of attraction to gentlemen. And they love how my curves taper down to my long legs. Yes, I am that hot. But I was not always hot like this. Sometimes I wash my body with cold water. Hot and cool are synonymous, isn't it? To be true, I must be washed every 30 minutes or so, for I am manhandled after almost every 20 minutes. They order me after paying the fixed price and my owner (fondly called Dulalbabu) listens accordingly. He rinses me and then makes me look turned on ─ because people want me ready to be enjoyed, they don’t want to waste their time on perfunctory businesses like touching and talking before the first plunge. Then I am prepared for serving, like a cake on a dish (in many cases, literally along with a piece of cake) with sprinkles of glistening water here, a little sugar there and then some quivering and shivering and shaking. The customers then light up a cigarette and kiss me on my fragile and moist body with their smoky lips. They devour me in broad, open daylight, for they are too bold to do anything in secrecy. They have complained about me a few times ─ I repeat, only a few times ─ for my height because I am quite tall for them. This kind of height for someone like me is quite unconventional. But different people have different tastes. Many customers like short ones, because they can hold them entirely, they feel like they can capture and absorb the whole body at one go, in a dominant position. I think they want to feel superior. But who doesn’t?

Minutes ago, when I was declared dead, my owner was not sad at all, rather, was very angry because it caused him a reasonable loss of his investment. While I am lying on the ground, taking my last breath and seeing everyone’s eyes on me, Dulalbabu suddenly starts blurting abusive words to the killer. Oh, forgive me. I’ve forgotten to mention that I am dying no natural death; it's a murder. Though an unintentional and accidental one. I’ll tell you later why it was accidental. I am feeling delirious during my last moments and can’t remember everything chronologically. Everything I remember is a combination of different memories, entangled with other blurred events in an obscure way. I will be cremated soon and I don’t have much time to talk to you. But I so want to talk with someone like you, who listens to my unworthy talks with such attention. I want to tell you everything about my life from the very beginning. But what can I do other than bid you goodbye and vanish from this world? Because every soul needs to rest in peace, isn’t it? Before going, let me tell you why the murder was an accident. Minutes ago, the customer (whom I had to satisfy) held me lightly while talking to someone about some political issue. Quite an unlikely thing to do in a moment like that. As the conversation progressed, it became a heated debate and he absentmindedly left hold of me. Then I fell on the ground and was felled by a cruel stone, only to find myself broken into pieces, for I am simply made of glass. I am a tea glass in a roadside teashop in which hundreds of people drink tea every day. My owner, I mean the owner of this shop is very poor and it costs him 10 rupees for a tea glass. It's normal for him to be angry. It's only natural for me to be thrown out both from this world and everyone’s memory.