With the festive season just past, wrapping papers and satin
bows are still waiting to be smoothened out and put away for recycling! There
have been gifts and more gifts, their exchanges following an established
pattern of give and take, no questions asked. But, what about gifts of another
nature? Gifts that are not entirely evened out, not always sanctioned and not
even wholly needed or welcomed.
The teacher who makes a gift of her old scrap books to a
favoured pupil. The mother who gifts away her wedding sari to a loved daughter.
The student who wants to honour his teacher with a pen. The grandmother who
makes a gift of table covers she embroidered in senior school. The aunt who
will have you keep a coverlet she wove with her own hands. The father who
passes on a frayed book entitled “Great Masters”. The friend who hands over her
favourite fruit cover as a spring cleaning hand me down. The domestic who
returns from his village, carrying a jar of rustic and pungent pickle. The
great grandma who wishes to win over a processed food weary palate with homemade
snacks.
We know the feeling. We extend our hand out, wondering where
in the cluttered home are we going to put this gift down. There might even take
place a domestic discussion on the wisdom of accepting the souvenir. It might
be suggested that the largess be declined, it is not something we need after
all. Who is going to maintain a rag-bag-tag of objects that have no practical value?
But, that is where the catch is! The value lies in the
sentiment involved. The givers have invested precious bits of themselves in
these seemingly ‘useless’ gifts. In those battle weary objects are woven the
giver’s emotions, their desire to stay connected at a deeper level, their
energy and effort, their affection for and faith in the recipient. It is the
very human story of continuation, connection, legacy and carrying forward.
I have a broken fan for instance, lying in my cupboard. The
rib is snapped, there is a hand tacked blue, chequered cover holding it
together. It is lifeless trash for all purposes. But I am going to pass it on!
It was Beeji’s constant companion. In my head, it was a witness to her violent
end. It was with her in those hours of aloneness. It has heard all her
conversations. The stem has the feel of her palm.
The day I hand it over, I dread having my daughter say, “But I don’t need it Mom!”
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