The autumn leaves lay calmly on the dusty road. When dusk fell, they all returned home. Not only can we can hear the mechanic roar of the retiring robots, but also, we can hear the soft, ruffling of the pages of a book. It is a surreal scene. We can see rows of books heading home, almost parallel to the files of robots. This is a land of familiarity and mystery. They all are occupied by their own woes and wishes. They don’t talk with the other kind. The books acquaint themselves with the wise pages. While, the robots churn in the programmed manner of rust and oil. The books breathe through the old mystics of their elders, as they soak in the coffee colored pages. The robots labor, they toil. They seemed satisfied with the old tubes of oil they carry home. This world is a juxtaposition of hazardous knowledge and mundane suspicions. The two kinds don’t involve with the other. They live with themselves; they only break bread with their kind. Unorthodoxy has created doubt and fear. They do not pray; they do not prey. They live in complete innocence, solitude and ignorance.
But one day, one robot’s internal wires seemed to coil up. The overlapped wires set up sparks. The sparks threaten self-destruction. The elders tried to oil him and rewind his wires. But a different kind of electricity was flowing through his chains that day. The metabolism seemed to gear up all the nuts and bolts. The sharp edges were bleeding old oil and splinters. The metal began to crack. They believed that his internal body parts were destabilizing. They tried the stabilizer, they tried the pump. They tried to remove his rusted, worn out parts. They tried to weld his crusted arms. They unscrewed his legs. But his eyes seemed to be lost in a weird daze. They kept moving in conjoint circles and one timid voice suggested,
“Maybe, the books will know what to do.” His whisper was lost in the stirring, tossing and turning. The mechanic voices grew alien for the sick robot. One elder comprehended that his oil smelled weird. They realized that he was gnarling clogged oil and spit. They turned him over. They gasped in apprehension and desperation.
“The wiring is filled with water! The oil is filthy!”
An air of frenzy took over the confusion and disdain. Never before had they experienced such peculiarity.
They decided to cast him as an outcast. They let him corrode near the junkyard.
The books and the robots knew that the rain was their biggest enemy. The robots would oxidize and the books would get wet. It wasn’t that time of the year though. They were safe, secure and unwarned.
That night rain fell in all kinds of forms. It fell in hailstorms and large droplets and slender waves and also as huge pelts of stone. Fires burned throughout the town. The elders of both kinds exchanged sympathetic nods. Their wry meetings allowed the disturbed lot to find some kind of comfort. The junkyard seemed like a battleground of worn out tires, unused screwdrivers and tarnished axes. The brown murk made him cringe. The outcast robot spotted a shed. He crawled there and let his metallic armor have some rest. He looked around then and winced. This wasn’t an ordinary shed, but this was where all the old books were dumped. This was the graveyard of books. They believed that books never died. Their condition just worsened.