In the royal bathroom of Apartment 203, there lived a bar of soap named Bubbles. He wasn’t just a soap. He was a philosopher and considered himself the most unfortunate creature in the world.
Every morning, as soon as the giant human hand reached out, Bubbles began his daily rant:
“Oh no, not again! The rubbing! The scrubbing! The violent rotational friction! I am vanishing, people! VANISHING!”
The toothbrush, who had heard this speech for 47 mornings back-to-back, groaned.
“One more time, Soap, you’re not vanishing—you’re working. That’s called purpose.”
“Purpose?” Bubbles squeaked. “You think it’s noble to be reduced from a proud rectangular block into a flat potato chip? I used to be thick, look at me now! Even a Parle-G biscuit has more dignity than me!”
The towel, hanging on its hook with yesterday’s dampness, muttered:
“At least you’re useful. I’m just a wet blanket with embroidery.”
The razor, polishing its shiny blade, added:
“You think you have it bad? I shave hair off strangers’ armpits and get blamed for every minor cut. Do you know how many times I’ve heard, ‘Ow! Stupid razor!’? No one ever says, ‘Wow, my face is smooth—thanks, buddy!’”
The shampoo bottle, the wise guru, finally spoke.
“Enough! Soap, listen carefully. Yes, you melt away. Yes, you shrink. Yes, one day you’ll be nothing, but just a small piece of yourself stuck in the corner of the bathroom. But every time you’re used, you leave people fresh, clean, and acceptable for society. Without you, the whole world would smell like a gym locker. You don’t disappear—you transform. That is greatness.”
Bubbles blinked. For the first time, he stopped complaining. A tiny bubble crown floated above his head as he whispered:
“So… I’m basically… a superhero?”
“Yes,” said Shampoo. “A selfless warrior of cleanliness. A martyr for hygiene. A saint of soapiness.”
The toothbrush clapped its bristles. The towel gave a damp cheer. The razor muttered, “Fine, you’re great, but I’m still underappreciated.”
Just then, the human picked up Bubbles, rubbed him vigorously, and—true to comic timing—Bubbles slipped. He shot out of the hand like a missile, bounced off the sink, and landed majestically into the toilet with a heroic plop.
The bathroom fell silent.
The toothbrush finally said, “Even heroes… have their flush moments.”
The shampoo bottle sighed.
“Selflessness, my friends, isn’t glamorous. Sometimes you shine, sometimes you slip, but you always serve. That’s the soapy truth.”
The SOAP Opera of Life:
Life is a lot like soap. You’re constantly rubbed the wrong way, losing bits of yourself every day—by deadlines, by relatives asking, “When are you getting married?”, and by WhatsApp groups that should’ve been muted three years ago.
Like soap, you will shrink, wrinkle, and eventually become that awkward thin slice nobody knows what to do with—too small to use, too precious to throw away. But here’s the secret: your greatness isn’t in how long you last, but in how fresh you leave the world around you.
True service doesn’t come with applause, trophies, or even a thank-you. It comes with the quiet satisfaction of knowing: “Yes, I’m half my size now, but at least that guy doesn’t smell like a dead fish anymore.”
And sure, you might slip up. You might fly dramatically out of someone’s hands and land in life’s metaphorical toilet. But even then, you’ll be remembered—not for your fall, but for all the times you foamed up, took one for the team, and kept mankind from stinking.
So the next time you feel worn out, remember:
You’re not breaking down—you’re bubbling up.
You’re not being used—you’re being useful.
And if anyone ever calls you “slippery,” just wink and say,
“Better slippery than stinky.”
Like soap, Talesmith stories may be small, but they leave you fresher every time.
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