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| Kishore Singh: It is the thought, isn't it? |
| Kishore Singh / New Delhi Jul 25, 2009, 00:15 IST |
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The excitement of showing off their shopping was almost as much as the experiences they wanted to share of their month in the United States, so I knew I was in for a long night, but having been apart for so long it was the least I could devote to my wife and daughter on their return from the Big Apple. Packages and stories tumbled out simultaneously, of the tours they had taken, and the museums they had seen, and the shopping they had done, and the memories they had brought back, along with, at least, as many gifts as the names of friends in their mobile phones.
There were heels and wedges, sandals and slippers and shoes that filled a whole bag. “Aren’t they cool?” preened my daughter, who is at a glamour-struck age, but even so I thought the several dozens of pairs excessive. “They aren’t all for me,” she explained though, pointing to some pairs of flip-flops, “that lot there is for my college friends.” Apparently not all the handbags and apparel, the jackets and tees, the tube tops and sweats were hers either — a fraction had been earmarked for another group of friends.
“See what I got for our son,” said her mother, spilling open the contents of several bags to reveal a dowry of jeans and shirts and electronic gadgetry, some things that he had asked for and several others that he had not. There were tennis racquets and toiletries and some things I couldn’t make head or tail of.
“And for you,” said my wife, opening another bag, “these goodies.” It was, I had to confess, unusually heavy. “You shouldn’t have,” I murmured, touched. “There wasn’t a day I didn’t pick something for you,” she said — quite truthfully as it turned out, for inside were newspapers, copies of The New York Times, clippings from magazines and other papers, on art shows and artists and openings. “I saved them all,” said my wife virtuously, while I wondered whether to be polite and leave them on the table, or dump them in the dustbin when she wasn’t looking.
But my goodie-bag was only a minor distraction. How did I like my wife’s designer shades? My daughter’s jewellery watch? And what did I think of the makeup and perfumes and deos and sprays and eau de toilettes and ‘waters’ that, even if used injudiciously, would last them the next decade? “Here,” said my wife, thrusting a packet at me, “this is for you.”
The packet turned out to have more things to read — a guide to the Metropolitan Museum, another on the paintings from the Frick Collection, the Museum of Modern Art’s floor plan, Venetian and Islamic glass at the Corning Museum; there were flyers for Broadway shows and used ticket stubs for the musical Mama Mia!, a free guide to the Smithsonian, tour booklets from their visits to Fort Lauderdale and the Capitol and literature about what to do and eat in Hershey — alas, the chocolates were for friends.
There was duty-free liquor for members of the family, yummy things to eat for others, dresses and shirts, even dishes and pans, all with someone’s name on it. Wrappings and packaging material and merchandise littered the house. “This is for Sarla,” my wife began to segregate things, “this is for my mother,” and a bag of salt and pepper and ketchup sachets pinched from the restaurants they’d eaten in was identified as “probably useful for your sister”.
And when all was done and put away, she said, “Don’t think I only got those freebies for you, I also bought this book that I’ve been wanting to read for the longest time, especially for you.”
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