The Gift

I gifted myself a book. Not bought, but “gifted” it to myself. It was perfect. All it lacked was the shimmering wrap that would rustle frantically as I would tear it open with the utmost excitement. But that I would handle. I opened the not so attractive brown cardboard cover and there it was, lying bare in front of me- “The Great Gatsby”.   I always wanted to read it but couldn’t manage the time for it among my various occupations of banking, having a heartbreak, cookery shows, being in love, obsessing over my wardrobe etc. Also, my loyalties had partially shifted to the motion pictures. The ancient figures in their splendid costumes, gliding like poetry, two sisters turning a crime scene spotless, an adolescent shifting continuously between the perplexing realms of sanity and lunacy; And then there was Meryl Streep who would make a devout out of even the most loyal cine-atheist.


But Gatsby, he had the charms of some old loves. You may realize after seeing him that the love that “was” was not dead but in hibernation and the imbecile was still very much capable of hijacking you. A book can open so many doors of reality and alternate realities for us. Sometimes, its just nice and comforting to read about a woman cheating on her husband, attaining some kind of poetic justice in the process. Or witness a family which can share a toothpaste but not their lives. Knowing that its not just me whose mad rush of everyday existence, compels him/her to give in to the lesser gods. And as the end approaches, seeing that love is capable of redeeming even the most vicious. And these are to name just a few.

 I gently grazed the cover with my hand and intently looked at those figures who resided the twenties of America. I took it to my room and carefully placed it beside the God of Small Things. I can’t wait to read it but it will be some other day Just like everything else, the vague, brazen, unfaithful ‘some other day’ will do for now.