It was latish afternoon, around three, Tuesday, the 17th of August, and I was amidst a sleepy crowd that buzzed a lulling buzz and there was hot sun and humid air. A heavy sweat broke out on my forehead and I was wiping my forehead with the sleeve of my shirt only too often. I had been out on the street for a long time and having attempted to complete my mission and failed absolutely in it, I was sitting upon a wooden bench in the bustling lobby of the Landmark Shopping Mall, pensive and reflective… It all began like this…
Choosing gifts for Mummy
17th of August is the eve of my mummy’s birthday. Like any young boy who had a little money jingling in his pocket, clamouring to be spent, I had this manic urge to “splurge” on birthdays in the family and anniversaries. For the past few years, though I did have a little pocket-money, I never had enough in it to really buy something good. This year, I had cautiously saved my money with the miserliness unbelievable and made sure I had a fat sum in my pocket. I wanted to by a really wonderful present for my dearest mother. And that was my mission…
To begin with, I decided to scroll through the ladies section of the Westside Store. I had this fantasy of presenting a dress to her. I did not, however, quite know the kind of dresses she’d like to have for her birthday, in spite of the fact that I’d seen 16 of those by that time! However, I did flick through the catalogue. I must have spent a good half hour in the ethnic section of the store—since I was more than certain how repulsive it would be for her if I were to present her with Levis and Flying Machine—and at the end that half-hour, I did select a rather pretty dress from the display. But just a little moment before I could ask the attendant to add that to my shopping cart, something happened…
I took a good look at the dress, for a long while stared at it, and then, as though instructed to, restored the dress to it’s original place. Something or someone inside of me had said… no, Laxman, that’s not good enough…
Having convinced myself in this rather peculiar fashion that a dress was not the ideal gift for my mother for this occasion, I walked out of the store itself without glancing here or there… even the range of bright T-shirts hanging down by the unisex casuals’ section couldn’t distract me.
Landmark is something of an epicenter of shopping… Not only do you have the Westside on the ground floor, those who prefer pocket-friendly purchasing have the choice of this crowd-zone called Big Bazaar. With the hope of finding something that this enigmatic internal self would consider best suited as a gift for mummy, I climbed the flimsy wooden stairs, past the two jokes called watch guards into the bazaar.
I must have window-shopped for three quarters of an hour, picking up and examining myriad things ranging from glass roses to bed-covers to some really pretty(and astoundingly affordable) fancy pins—I knew they would look nice if she pinned her dupatta with them. But to everything that I picked up and examined, this internal self said the same thing… no Laxman, that’s not good enough. Frustrated at this constant negation and unbelievably contradicting irritant, I honestly bellowed “what’s good enough then?”. Fortunately, if you call it that way, nobody thought I was shouting at myself. They mistook it to be me shouting at the attendant at the counter, who, poor thing, flinched and nearly went overboard and on the verge of tears… it took me a minute more than expected to assure her it wasn’t her fault.
I climbed down those aforementioned flimsy stairs, once more into the lobby where people were coming in and going out… I threw rather jealous looks at people of my age who had bags in their hands… when everything was perfect, money in my pocket, affordable and pretty things available, there was this unknown person inside me telling me nothing on display was good enough…
Afraid this voice would make me run around the town like a madman and allow me to buy nothing at all, I mentally imagined myself at myriad shops selling myriad things and thought of myriad ways of considering every article on display as a gift… and to every single one of those myriad choices—books, clothes, watches, pictures, glass-flowers, plastic flowers, real flowers, petals, leaves, plants, et cetera—that voice shook his head and in it’s sing-song irritating voice replied—no, Laxman, it’s not good enough!
Perplexed at this completely unexpected battle within me—a battle that can hardly be called one—I sat down at the bench in the lobby of the Landmark Shopping Mall, pensive and reflective… who was this fellow telling me nothing is suitable for my mother for her gift? And whatever would he say such a thing for?
And then, as I rose, still pondering, and mounted my scooter to return home empty handed, the money, that was hitherto clamouring and jingling, lying a limp wad of printed paper, the answer crept into my mind… and with it, a smile… and unintentionally, a tear…
The Ideal Gift
What gift can the creation present to his creator?
Tell me?
The Answer.
Early morning, August 18.
Mother just comes into the dining room to a garoulous’happy birthday’ over tea. Laxman leaves his chair, walks to her with a smile.
and for a long while, he is bowed low, his head at her feet. his eyes in tears.
The only gift a son can give his mother is him himself!