The gift of endurance - a short story

As the shafts of autumnal sunlight struggled through the half-shut windows, striving to cheer up the morose creature within a flat of the three-storied apartment of her umpteenth neighbourhood, Mini, the nomad, sat there, alone, by her bed, wondering if she truly belonged to this world, speculating where she had gone wrong, praying for things to sort themselves out. Her mind altered between pain and vengeful thoughts. Like Macbeth, she envisioned stabbing the ones she loathed – like a child, she cowered from the thought of ending up behind the bars. But how was her life different from that of being imprisoned? Did she really have the freedom to live life on her own terms?

Mini started recalling her own past, in her bid to discover where precisely, she had gone wrong…

Before her eyes, flashed her own face, much younger, innocent, and not yet marred by adulthood and suffering – which she concealed so well. She could hear her little voice, see the gleam in the eyes of a child who little knew what awaited her. She understood now.

Rumki-Jhumki’s mother had been specific and rather emphatic, when she came to invite Mini to her youngest, Jhumki’s birthday: “NO GIFTS”. Mini was too young to even understand what gifts were; she was rather curious about the birthday party, especially because she had not had any of her own. What would it be like? She was visibly excited. As Jhumki’s mother left, Mini questioningly looked at her mother and grandparents, who seemed to answer her doubts with their smiles and nods.

Mini looked smart that morning in her frock, an attire reserved only for pre-pubertal girls in her ogling city, as she learnt in the course of her life. Her heart beat faster as she approached Jhumki’s flat. It was in the building beside Mini’s, in a government quarter. She took to the stairs leading to the second floor – there were no elevators in 1990 in most residential buildings.

The door opened, and she was greeted by Jhumki’s portly mother, a huge smile pasted on her flabby face. Mini entered and her jaws dropped – the balloons, streamers, noisy children – it took her breath away. The aroma of ghughni wafted through the living room. In a little while, Jhumki’s mother had handed her a bowlful of Mini’s favourite snack– garnished with cucumber and carrot juliennes. Yum! Mini was about to help herself to a spoonful, when an older child blurted out – “Let us unwrap the gifts!”

Beautiful and glittery papers were savagely torn off huge boxes, unveiling toys and dolls of all kinds. So this is what a gift is – Mini now understood. She wondered what Jhumki would do with so many gifts. By now, all the children in the living room ahd proudly shown off their gifts. All eyes were now fixed on Mini.

“Haven’t you brought anything?”- Jhumki’s mother asked her. Mini had an indescribable feeling – something she had not yet known the word for. But Mini had a good memory. ‘Aunty, you asked me not to bring any gift. You said that children ought not to carry gifts.”

At this, the whole room burst into laughter, as every child pointed at her, calling her stupid; someone told her that it was a courtesy for people to refuse gifts. Mini was perplexed. She felt helpless now, as if she was going to be engulfed by this tide of laughter.

Jhumki’s mother was seething with anger. She seized the ghughni from Mini’s tiny hand, grabbed her delicate arm, opened the ‘main’ door and hollered, “Go away. How dare you come without a gift?” The other children promptly agreed with her – “NO GIFTS! NO ENTRY!” – they shouted in unison.

‘Shoo, shoo” – everyone exclaimed.

Seeing no other way, Mini went downstairs and out of the building. She ran to her building and saw her mother at the verandah. “They asked me to leave as I did not take a gift”, whimpered Mini.

Swallowing the big lump in her throat, Mini walked back bravely towards Jhumki’s building. On the verandah of the second floor, there stood all the children, still laughing, explaining to each other in animated tones how stupid it was of Mini to come without a gift.

Mini looked up and all she could remember was the steaming ghughni, the balloons and streamers.

“Can I come back please? I will ring a gift later”, she pleaded.

But Jhumki’s mother’s face had turned into stone now, unmoved by the child’s beseeching voice.

Mini stood there a long time, squinting at the leering faces, as the scorching sun beat down on her confounded skull, occasionally distracted by her mother’s calls of “Come back, Mini. Fast. Now.”

Mini returned home. Late in the afternoon that day, her grandfather took her to the Sodepur Market and bought a Bengali version of the Mahabharata. Mini’s eyes lit up – “I watch this on TV.”

“Yes dear, you should read it when you grow up”, smiled her grandfather.

Mini and her grandfather now stood outside Jhumki’s house, the Mahabharata now wrapped beautifully. Mini hoped that she would be forgiven for her mistake, that Jhumki’s mother would greet them in, and …

The door opened just a tad, revealing the gigantic woman’s stone face.

Mini’s grandfather began, “I am so sorry I sent the kid without a gift. It’s my fault. Don’t punish my Mini for this. Here’s a gift for Jhumki. I wish her a happy birthday. May God b….”

Stubby fingers made their way out of the door, which was opened just enough for the whale of a woman to grab the gift. Before Mini knew, the door had shut, with a loud, reverberating slam that jolted her out of her wits.

Mini did not need her elders that day, to tell her what she had experienced. She did not even need to read the Mahabharata to teach her the epic truths of life. When she grew up, she found those words to aptly describe her feelings – embarrassment, she later understood, a word that she grew well-acquainted with, courtesy her life – a word that would go on to describe the most predominant of her feelings, again and again and again. It became so common that Mini would be surprised if she did not get embarrassed! It stung her at first but she took it in her stride, accepting it as a friend who would cling on to her despite her dislike for its company.

She also learnt, the harder way, that she should never compromise. Mini, as a four-year-old, was steered by the norms of the society, of her family. More than two decades later, Mini had grown to have a mind of her own.

That lucky knave, Jhumki’s mother, she thought; she was lucky I was not a grown-up then, otherwise I would have vandalized the so-called birthday party of her ninny child. What can a hypocrite thickhead like her teach her child?

Mini, even with paucity of funds, took care to buy gifts for every birthday party though. It’s not that she loved gifting them but she was wise enough to conform to the ways of the world. She too craved for gifts – the material kind sometimes, but above all, for gifts that cost nothing – smiles, hugs, kisses, love – unconditional love, the most elusive gift of all.

Time had taught Mini that it was her lot to be embarrassed. It did not matter whether she did anything right or wrong. The grown-up Mini may be flawed, but the four-year-old Mini had no cause for punishment. Mini now understood that she should stop blaming herself. She was more sinned against than sinning, just like Shylock.

Ousted from a party for going empty-handed – that was the beginning of a series of rejections that Mini mostly failed to justify to herself. Life would always be mean to her – she knew it, but she would have to find a way out to feel other things too – the less embarrassing words, for instance, so that she was not always embarrassed, which was what life precisely intended.

She had the greatest gift of all, the gift of endurance, or was it a curse?