The Christmas Present

The resplendence of a December sun usually has an indolent opulence in its radiance, which is somewhat equivalent to the warmth and ardor of new love. For me, however, it was already showing signs of the mundane dreariness of a love that has commenced to fizzle out with time.

I shielded my weary eyes against it. A sweat bead or two had gathered around my crinkly brows, glistening, almost on the brink of falling on the wilting eyelids.

The prolonged ambling around in the sun had left me somewhat breathless, although not exactly jaded. As I clambered on the narrow broken sidewalk, I realized how much I hated it, with its bricks ledged out in a precarious fashion, and with the people striding boisterously; eyes wide open…and senses blatantly shut. The bookstalls were lined somewhat prudently on its one side whereas the inexpensive food stalls hawked, clamoring for attention on the other. Shopkeepers called out with interspersed dissonances of ‘O Didi!’s and ‘O Madam!’s, which I astutely ignored.

I saw people walking in twos, in fours, and in loud, chattering groups, and became at once conscious of a cold shiver of loneliness surging acutely under the flimsy layer of my otherwise unresponsive skin. The shiver soon took the form of painful jabs, till at one point I nearly forced myself to plug in my earphones. The attempt went wasted since it did not have much influence over my thoughts. They continued flitting in with as much regularity as before. We often choose to pretend that we do not care, but it becomes increasingly difficult to dispel a thought that is gnawing at the very nucleus of our being.

The bookstalls were spread out like dingy little shanties at irregular intervals, overlapping on each other and with hardly any place left for the owners to sit, except for a stool or a rickety bench. The stalls had makeshift racks lined with books jammed in offhandedly without much care. But when you asked for a particular book, the owners knew exactly where they were. Most of the books were second-hand, and several others had seen too many hands to remember the exact number of exchanges made.

I often thought about the books, and of all that they had been silent spectators to before they found their way into these shops. There were some that had probably never seen the light of the day being stacked at some disregarded corner in the bookshelf, some who had dutifully acted as pillows to saturated minds catnapping on the sly, while there were others who had been completely ignored, even criticized, because of the printed words in them which were either very substandard, or conveyed little sense. And then there were books, never read but arranged with great care and palpable smugness on the mantelpiece – the Pushkins, the Gorkys and the Nietzsches – just because they were effortless hallmarks of an intellectual. Whether you were one, or had been so once did not matter because no one ever bothered to verify.

The quaint locality went by the name of ‘Boi-para’, and its fame was spread far and wide. Book-lovers swarmed at all hours mainly because it was the only place where second-hand books were sold dirt cheap. People swore by the fact that if a certain book was not available in the dimly-lit stalls of Boi-para, then it was probably out of print and had sadly become an extinct document. Ironically, it was also a place where books were sold, books which had been pre-owned by someone. If you considered that way, this contradictory division of people in the society was the reason why Boi-para, in all its quintessence, had come into existence in the first place. I suppose both deserved equal credit, but that did not stop me from wondering if from among books being sold, there were books that had been loved and yet given away. Selling books one owned was equivalent to bartering a part of them, I felt. What of the sense of absolute ownership with which those names had been scribbled on the right end corner of the first page? These abstruser musings of mine often made me disillusioned, for I sympathized with the so-called ‘unwanted’ books. I felt we shared a secret, intrinsic connection with each other because at one point of time, we all turned expendable. The difference was that people did not have a Boi-para where we could be bartered off, and have someone lovingly take us in their hands, caress us and make us feel loved again…

The aurelian embellishments on the hard-bound books reflected beams of gold from the darker corners of the stalls, otherwise obscure due the unequal distribution of sunlight that had deprived them of their deserved attention. The glimmer mingling with the smokiness heightened the magical chiaroscuro effect, emphasizing on those details which one was likely to overlook otherwise. I was drawn towards one of those corners like insects are to the light, for these shops were among the very few that could boast of having the best of the cache although they went unnoticed for having little else to attract the attention of customers. Their pale flicker was no match to the gloss of the new shops, like genuine moments of happiness overlooked in one’s pursuit of more money-oriented and plastic delights.

I ran my fingers through the covers, clearing the thin film of dust that had settled unsuspectingly during the course of the day.

“Here, let me clean them for you,” said the old proprietor with an apologetic smile. He was more than seventy-five – an age he had mentioned to me when I first came to his shop some three years back and an age known to all his customers down to the oldest ones. When asked about the exact number, he would complain about his memory being as rusted as the dust collected on his precious books. Ironically, when it came to the books in his shop, he knew exactly which nook hid what book, and which corner shelved another.

Glancing through the lot, my eyes were suddenly fixated on a particular cover – a shoddy green one with little black letters stamped across the center. Curiosity intermingled with incredulity I picked it up, scarcely able to believe that this was indeed the book I thought it to be. It was a rare anthology of ballads and verses by one of my favourite poets, and the edition on my hand was the first and last one that had been printed in 1889! This was not merely a find, it was a treasure. The russet pages looked ready to crumble at the slightest touch, and judging by its condition I could tell that not many had been kind to it. Similar entities recognize their counterparts very easily and empathize with them, knowing that they have faced much the same along the way.

“Does Didibhai intend on buying something?” the shop owner’s cheerful old voice broke into my reflections.

“Yes…this one” said I. “How much for this?”

The man looked somewhat uncomfortable. I guessed that it was probably going to burn a bigger hole in my pocket than usual, but I had no qualms. A little extra money for a book that was never printed twice was worth it. It was the Christmas season, and I deserved to gift myself something as valuable as that at least for once. There were very few people who actually cared to give me presents, and their number seemed to surprisingly dwindle with every passing year.

“Forgive me, Didibhai but I cannot sell this,” the man said evading my eyes with some hesitation.

“Cannot sell?” I asked blankly, overcome with sudden disappointment. I should have turned indifferent to such blows by now, but some habits take a really long time to settle in. “But why? If it is about more money, then…”

“No, no…not money,” the man cried anxiously. “Actually…it has been sold.”

“Sold? To whom?” I enquired.

“An old gentleman,” he said. “He said he would come and collect it today. Gave me a full payment yesterday to ensure I don’t sell it to someone else. Paid very handsomely, too.”

“How much?” I asked, half-hoping to outdo this gentleman monetarily. At the back of my mind I recollected that today was the fifteenth, and I was yet to pay my rent. The landlady kept throwing nasty glances with her owl-eyes every morning when I slinked out, and I had even overheard her telling the kitchen maid in not-too-hushed tones that she would soon give me the notice if I did not pay up by the twentieth. And yet here I was, ready to gamble the roof atop my head for a book, and still had no qualms about it.

The old shop owner quoted the price paid by the other gentleman, and I realized that it was way above my means. Evidently, it was someone who was extremely aware of the value of the book, and also had the affluence to afford it. People do not pay such exorbitant advances in shops like these, for they are not even frequented like many others in Boi-para are. But this gentleman concerned had given thought to that vague possibility of someone wanting to buy the book which had resulted in the lofty payment. The old shop owner looked pained as I slowly kept the book in its place.

“If you want to buy other old books, there is aplenty…” he said, trying to make up.

“No… I think I’ll come tomorrow,” I said slowly, turning to leave. The other reason for this hasty departure was that my eyes had unknowingly welled up.

In an attempt to hide my tears and struggling to look ahead in spite of my blurred vision, I collided headlong into someone. Muttering a quick apology, I swerved past the person wearing what I could vaguely perceive to be a maroon muffler.

I had not gone far, when I heard discreet steps behind me and a crackling voice call out,

“Excuse me, young Miss!”

I was not very sure if that was meant for me, but the next call confirmed my doubts.

“The young Miss with the blue bag…Excuse me!”

I stopped at my tracks and turned around, subtly trying to wipe off the traces of the smeared kohl and salinity from my cheeks. An old gentleman of near about the same age as the old shop owner, dressed in tasteful clothing with a maroon muffler wound carefully around his neck, came up nimbly and stood before me. I racked my brains, trying to remember if that face matched with any of the faces etched deep down in my memory.

“The old man at the shop said that you were interested in buying my book. Is that so?” he asked with a certain amusement twinkling in his eyes. I realized who he was, and mingled with the realization was a deep sense of loathing that was uncalled for. Although it was pointless, I did not like the way he called it ‘my book’, because that made it appear like I was coveting for something that was not essentially mine. Just because he had the riches to afford it did not give him the license to ridicule someone else. Who knew if he even cared about the poems? I had heard of rich folks buying old books just like they bought antiques. They cared neither for art nor for literature, were merely fashionable dilettantes competing with several others in the hope of appearing like some urbane aficionado in their social circles.

Inwardly gritting my teeth, but with an outward composure I said,

“Yes.”

“Student?” he asked, this time somewhat kindly.

“Yes,” I lied since it was very difficult to make my position understood.

“What is your subject?” was the next one.

“Biology,” I lied again. At the back of my mind, I was somewhat apprehensive of random Biology questions being shot at me. I knew of many people did that for the fun of it, to humiliate others.

“Did you want to buy the book for someone?” I was grateful that he was not treading on the dreaded path. He rephrased, “As a present, I mean, since it is Christmas…”

“For myself,” I answered candidly, the first truth in a long while. “I wanted to gift it to myself for Christmas.”

“Gift yourself?” he sounded both surprised and amused at the same time.

“Yes. Because many people don’t have the good fortune of receiving gifts like most others have,” I said, controlling the voice layered with bitter resentment.

My sudden remark took him off guard. Clearly, my demure features had given him a false impression.

“And you have an interest in Literature?”

“I don’t see it mentioned anywhere that no one but the students of Literature should have the exclusive rights over liking the discipline,” I said somewhat coldly.

“No. Certainly not,” he spoke with steadfast eyes that had taken no offence. “I am glad to know that there still are people who take an interest in the more refined aspects of life, not simply because they have to. By the by, I was myself a student of Mathematics with a love for Literature, and the latter still remains. So there, we do have something in common after all.”

I could tell he was trying to be friendly to make me feel at ease, and yet I had to admit that I saw no point in the conversation we were having. I had much more important things to engage my mind with, like how to pay off my rent by the twentieth, rather than have pretentious discussions on Literature with a strange old man. Now that the melancholy over the book had faded to some extent with only a few dregs of regret left, I looked at the situation at hand through the eyes of sheer practicality. People in our position do not have the luxury of lamenting over unattainable pleasures. A few whimsical tears and a couple of longing sighs are the maximum we can afford to expend. I mentally calculated my saved up money and saw that it came up to exactly the amount required for my rent. Tomorrow, I would pay it off and relieve myself of the heavy burden that had been looming over my head since the first of the month, although it meant that I would have nothing to spare for myself on Christmas.

“Were you keen on this because of its contents, or because of its present worth?” he asked, giving the book on his hand a careless glance.

“A bit of both,” I answered simply. “The contents mainly, and also the pride of owning something so archaic. What do I care if it is valued to be a hundred or a hundred thousand as long as I get it reasonable? I am neither a collector, nor an auctioneer.”

“If you are aware of its significance, then you must also know that I cannot part with this,” he said straightforwardly.

“I am aware,” I said with a voice of finality, attempting to draw this unnecessary conversation to a closure. “And I don’t ask you to. It was a pleasure talking to you, Sir, but I have to be going now.”

I was almost on the verge of turning away, when the gentleman called out, pretending to have not heard my last sentence.

“But I can compensate…”

“Compensate…?” I looked about sharply.

“No, not compensate,” he said quickly, realizing the callousness of his remark and clicking his tongue in an apologetic manner. “I did not mean that…not a very appropriate word it is, I believe – ‘compensate’. Well, what I meant is that I could give you the gift of this book…for a few minutes. You could take it in your hands, see through it and read a few poems if you wanted…”

I could still not grasp the entirety of the meaning of his words. I was rooted at my spot, not knowing what to do.

“You said that you wanted to buy this book as a present for yourself,” he continued, “and I always believe that presents become much more meaningful when they come from someone else. This is probably not the best present I am giving you but… Go on, take it…”

The noise of the traffic, the uproarious din of the people and every other noise in Boi-para became dim, distant, and molded into an orb. With trembling hands I reached out for the book, feeling the familiar touch of the hard cover on my frozen fingers. As I opened it, the piquant whiff settled amidst the old pages wafted out and mingled with the air around us, retaining some of it in the pages nonetheless. I flipped through with care, thinking of all those fingers that had run along it affectionately, curiously, and with delight. Not all of those fingers that touched the pages had owned the book, but they owned the little while that they had spent with it, and that was something no one could take away from them even for all the riches of the world. This moment was mine, and I felt the richest being a part of it, although beyond that moment I knew I was still going to have to concern myself with harsh realities like house rents and other unpaid bills.

“Thank you,” was all I could whisper in my half-choked voice. “Thank you so very much for this…”

25 December 2013