This is a story I wrote a long time ago. I still think it's sweet.
“Life is too short to read books you don’t like.”
She muttered to herself, flipping the novel shut in frustration and thumping it
on her work desk that already had a mountain of untouched books piled up on one
end. The book, The Sense of An Ending by Julian Barnes, was a
Booker Prize winner but Shweta didn’t care a hoot for it. Her palms grabbed the
arms of the chair and she glided it backwards to stand up.
Her father was in the habit of bringing books for
her he thought she would benefit from and Shweta didn’t have the heart to tell
him to stop. On the contrary, in her effort to impress the intellectuals at
home, she rummaged through their library and picked books she knew they
particularly enjoyed. Sadly, Shweta’s taste was lacking. The 23-year-old
English Honours graduate wanted something thrilling, something gripping,
something more appealing than The Alchemist and Wings
of Fire. Men in her family, however, would be disappointed if they found
her buried neck-deep in a mystery by Dan Brown or immersed in the dreamy world
of Jane Austen. Not that they would ever mention it to her.
Shweta was the weakling in her warrior family.
Submissive, introverted, sensitive—everything her strong-willed father,
headstrong mother, and fierce brother were not. Not that she wanted to be
exactly like them, least of all her brother who was known to cross swords, and
hands and feet, with everyone who irked him. She had been terrified of her five
year elder brother, always coming back home with bruised knees after football
practice and blackened eyes after fights. Even at 28, he was frequently at
loggerheads with everyone, most of all their father, so what everyone said
about “getting over it” had clearly not worked on him. As restless as he was,
he was all the more intellectual and analytic (a jerk in loose terms. His IIT
degree didn’t help). No one could fault him for having a foul temper when he
always argued the right point. His one sentence explanation always came with an
offhanded shrug that displeased dad very much, “They were insulting a girl!” or
“I couldn’t possibly not retaliate when they pushed and shoved me.” No, she
didn’t want to be like him, especially when she didn’t like raising her voice
needlessly, but it would have been nice to have that talent. How empowering it
would be to tell someone the truth.
Sighing, she sauntered towards her queen-size dark
wood bed, and ticked off all the reasons why she should tell her father she
hated his books. If nothing else, he will stop wasting his money, she assured herself
with a meek finality. She ensconced herself in the bed that her mother had
helped picked for her room, much like everything else. Her room was second
biggest in the house—her parents had the master bedroom just opposite hers but
even she had an attached bathroom and enough space to fit a dressing table, a
work desk, her bed and two side tables. She had another luxury to make her room
the most delightful place on the planet—her 29-inch LCD with more HD channels
than she ever desired to watch. They pampered her surely and in return, she
wanted to be worthy of it.
She pressed the on button on the remote control and
stared into nothingness outside the window, on the right to the TV. She sank
deeper until she was hidden neck down in her blanket and eventually fell into a
slumber as another reason popped into her head, “They won’t be shocked when I
write my own happy novel!”
***
Her father was sitting at the head of the dining
table, reading the newspaper like every morning. His face was hidden behind the
newspaper but Shweta had every wrinkle memorised. The long, world-weary face
had lost its youthful charm but his brown eyes still sparkled whenever he gave
one of his lopsided smiles. Jet black and thick with hair, his Tom Selleck
moustache gave him a dashing look, just like the actor, while his bushy
eyebrows with no arch had the opposite effect of giving the impression of being
unapproachable. For the most part of her life, Shweta had been terrified of her
father; it didn’t help that he felt like a giant at six feet, when she was only
five foot two inches. Since his hair started thinning out a few years ago,
Shweta saw traces of consciousness and vanity in him. Every few minutes, he
would run his hand over his balding head, still with a hint of surprise that he
was getting old.
He always had the same expression while reading the
newspaper—his smile turned upside down, his eyebrows knitted together in
disconcertion. He devoured one article after another about crime and
corruption, growing irate every second, and mumbling about the parasites of
this nation.
Fidgeting with her fingers, Shweta mentally prepped
herself up and marched towards the mahogany dining table in the middle of the
spacious room. “Dad, I have to ask you something,” she spoke as she stopped two
feet away from him.
Folding the newspaper neatly, he returned her gaze
as he said in a throaty voice, “Come, sit with me.” He gestured towards the
chair on his right as he took a sip of his unsweetened tea. His heavy voice
always had a friendly touch. Never had he unjustly raised his voice on his
children or wife but his controlled manner was much more terrifying that any
raised words could be.
She crossed the distance in two steps, ran her
hands on her skirt as she sat down. Let’s get this over with, she chanted in
her head, still fidgeting with her fingers and avoiding looking at him.
“Dad, I hate the books you gift me.” She announced
loudly before she lost her nerve.
She finally raised her eyes to look at him to gauge
his reaction. He blinked and asked, “What?”
“I hate the books you gift me. They are too serious
for my taste but I read them because you and Bhaiya are always
talking about them and I don’t want to seem unintelligent,” she reiterated,
gaining more confidence with each passing word, but still not enough to look
squarely in the eye. Stop twitching in your seat, she reprimanded
herself just as her mother used to.
She may have been mistaken but she heard her father
take a sigh. As she gathered to courage to raise her eyes to his face, he saw
his face twitching with a smirk, “Thank God! Your brother and I were so bored
of these books.”
Now was her time to be staggered, “What?”
Her father’s hand returned to his hair, or lack
thereof, and he admitted, “You were always reading heavy books, Greek
mythology, feminist literature, Booker Prize winning books. I felt quite
embarrassed buying Jeffery Archer, Agatha Christie, and Robin Cook. Your
brother has been secretly reading The Game of Thrones on his phone.” She almost
laughed out loud imagining her father and brother trying to impress her. The
idea was confounding.
“But I don’t even like those books. Those were all
my course books and I had no option but to eat them up,” she explained unable
to control her animated hand gestures, for the situation seemed so bizarre.
He stared at her strangely for a few seconds and
the next moment, he erupted in laughter, the sound rumbling in the room.
