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Covered in wrapping that resembled an old newspaper, the three items in his hand looked like books.
“What’s this?” My eyes were as wide as my smile when he held them out to me.
“Open them.”
I tore the paper from the first one and read the title. “Pinjarby Amrita Pritam.”
“The original is in Punjabi, so I got you the translated version.”
I gawked at him, speechless.
“Not what you’d expected?” he asked.
“Not even close!” I said in a soft voice. “Better than I could’ve ever expected.”
“Again, I’m not going to claim any credit. I asked Jas. She’s an avid reader of Indian literature. Are you familiar with the book?”
“Of course! You don’t grow up in a Punjabi household and not know about Amrita Pritam.”
“What does it mean?”
“Pinjar? It means skeleton. A shell. A remnant of one’s self. It represents the country at the time of partition, bloodied by communal riots, and women whose honor was linked to the nation. Women became symbols of the nation, and just like the land at the time, murdered and bloodied on both sides.”
He wore a look of shock as he sat stupefied. “Perhaps this wasn’t the best gift,” he confessed tentatively.
“Are you kidding! This is the best gift anyone could have ever given.”
Only someone who knew me would think of giving me this.The thought brought a fresh wave of anguish running through me.
“Why don’t you open the next one?” he nudged.
My excitement was now approaching its peak. Picking up the slightly thinner of the two, I tore away at the wrapping paper as I chirped, “I wonder what gem is inside this one.”
The sight of the book made me jump off my spot on the couch and on to his body. With my arms draped around his neck, I placed a firm kiss on his cheek. I leapt at him so eagerly, his hands came around my waist to prevent him from getting knocked over. Embarrassed, I retook my spot on the couch.
“A collection of Maya Angelou’s Poems! How did you know?” I asked.
He smiled in response. “I had a feeling you liked poetry.”
“Oh, Sujit!” I said and gave him another quick hug. My eyes were now on the last book.
“What about this one?” I was like a kid at Christmas.
Although, in my family, the kids got gifts on Diwali, not Christmas. Christmas was when we gifted others and when Mary Beth and I exchanged gifts. My heart bubbled with joy.
“Open it,” he urged.
My heart was in my mouth as I ripped the cover with wild enthusiasm, and a familiar book greeted me.
“A Thousand Splendid Suns! This is one of my favorites. I will cherish this all my life,” I squealed like a child, hugging the book to my chest.
“That you will. Turn to the title page.”
“What!” I cried preemptively. “No way!”
“Indeed. It’s signed by Hosseini.”
I quickly opened it and saw the inscription. “Not just signed, it’s personalized! It says,For Aarti! When did you get this? Do you know him? How do you know him?”