“Oh!” said my father when his eyes suddenly met with a pink folder while rummaging through his shelf of old books and files. The look on his face was surprising, as if he had completely forgotten that such a folder had existed, preserved. The folder had a bold ‘MARKETING’ in red written over it. The discolored folder spoke for itself that it was many years old. Older than me. I am 21.
Sitting on the far end of our bedroom, i saw him opening the folder. A stained, golden colored, neatly folded sheet of paper emerged. An old newspaper. INDIRA ASSASSINATED, it said in bold letters. The paper was a centimeter or two broader in width than todays newspaper. A centimeter long too. The good musty smell of old paper smelt real good. Nostalgia. I was holding a ‘piece of history’ in my hands.
Hair raiser update: 19/11/2010: When i opened the morning newspaper today, i saw an ad remembering Mrs. Indiara Gandhi on her 93rd birthday. What a co-incidence.