Tears of a Notebook

Tears of a Notebook

BY: Ubaid

Hello dear children! My name is Register — a humble notebook made of fine white paper, lined neatly with red and green margins. My price is only 100 rupees, yet my value is far more than that! I wear a shiny black lamination with a proud golden monogram that reads, “Chand Copy House.” That badge is my crown — it makes me feel elegant and special.

I once lived on the top shelf of Haji Book Depot, surrounded by many other notebooks and registers. Some were plain, some were cheap, and some were poorly made. Among them was a yellow register — rough, ugly, and made of low-quality paper. I never liked him much; he often teased me for being too proud. But deep down, I was proud indeed — proud of my beauty and fine finish.

Then one day, my destiny changed. A man came into the shop with his little son, Abu Bakar. The man looked around and finally picked me! Oh, what joy! My heart filled with pride. Out of dozens of registers, I was chosen! I imagined that Abu Bakar would love me — that he would write neatly on my pages, do his homework carefully, and keep me safe.

But I was wrong.

When Abu Bakar saw me, he didn’t feel the same love that I did. Instead of using me wisely, he began to draw funny faces and scribble random lines all over my clean pages. Then, with his tiny fingers, he tore out my pages to make paper boats and airplanes. Some of my torn pieces even ended up in the dustbin! That was the day I cried for the first time — yes, children, I cried. My tears were invisible, but they were real.

Do you know how I am made? Probably not — let me tell you my story.

Long ago, in ancient China, my ancestors were born. The Chinese people invented the art of making paper. They used tree bark, old fishing nets, and plant fibers, ground them into a fine pulp, mixed them with water, and dried them in the sun. That’s how the earliest paper sheets were made. For nearly six hundred years, the secret of papermaking remained hidden in China. They traded me — paper — with other lands and earned great wealth, while the rest of the world wondered how such a magical thing was made.

As time passed, knowledge spread, science advanced, and new methods of papermaking were discovered. Once, paper was brown and rough, but with innovation, I began to appear in many forms — white, yellow, colored, smooth, glossy, and soft.

Today, I am made in large paper mills using different materials. Have you ever seen a wheat plant, dear children? When wheat is harvested, the straw — called straw or toori — is left behind. That straw is used to make paper. Plants that grow along riverbanks, known as kaai or kahi, are also used. The eucalyptus tree, when ground into fine pulp, helps make strong paper. Even sugarcane waste — called bagasse — from sugar mills is used to create me.

Once the raw material is prepared, chemicals and colors are added depending on the type of paper to be made — white, brown, yellow, coated, or glossy. The pulp is pumped onto huge moving rollers, passed through felts and dryers, and then rolled up into giant reels. These reels are later cut into smaller sheets using sharp circular blades. The machines that cut and finish me are called rewinders, simplex, duplex, and glutin cutters.

During this process, my thickness and weight are carefully measured. If I’m meant for notebooks, I’m made at 63 grams per square meter; for books, 68 grams; for drawing sheets, 230 grams; and for tissue paper, only 20 to 22 grams! Even currency notes and the pages of the Holy Quran are made from special types of paper like me — and I feel honored by that.

But dear children, it is not easy to become what I am. I am crushed, shredded, pressed, steamed, and dried over hot rollers. I go through so much pain and pressure. Yet, I never complain, because my purpose is noble — to help you learn, write, and grow.

I only feel sad when I’m mistreated. When you scribble nonsense on me, tear my pages, fold me into airplanes, or throw me into the dustbin, it feels like my soul is being torn apart. I want to serve you, to carry your words, your dreams, and your stories. But when I’m wasted, it feels as if all the hard work — of machines, workers, and nature itself — goes in vain.

So, my dear children, I have a small request. Promise me that you’ll use me with care. Write neatly, keep me safe, and never tear me apart. Remember, I am more than just paper — I am your silent helper, your memory keeper, and your stepping stone to knowledge.

Can you make that promise?
Yes? A true promise?

Good! I knew you were kind and wise.

Thank you, my little friends. You’ve made this humble notebook very happy.