He brought home the abridged version of Jonathan Swift’s Gulliver’s Travels for her that evening. That night, as they set about unravelling the Lilliputian world together, he encouraged her to read aloud from it.
But her concentration unspooled as a sweet-spicey aroma wafted in from the kitchen, playful noises of the neighbourhood children came in, and the TV produced exaggerated resonances.
“You can watch your show later! The TV is not running away,” he said, tapping her head.
“Even the book is not running away,” she spoke slowly, rubbing her head, mirth alive on her face.
He threw a stern look her way, but that did not seem to quieten her. She was now rocking on the recliner and humming. Then he shrieked, bringing her lithe body to attention. He knew the trick. This is how you bring her attention back to the book.
Clearing his throat, he tempered his tone to match the narrative. When Gulliver screeched, he screeched; when the little villagers laughed, he laughed. As he turned the pages, she looked uprooted with the sudden dexterity and theatrics. Her almond-shaped eyes widened and her mouth parted slightly, as if waiting for the little people to materialise any moment! Her gaze followed his hands as he set about helping the villagers put together Gulliver’s bedding to retire for the night.
That’s great progress, I’m able to hold her attention, and she’s going to love this, he thought, a warm contentment flooding his heart.
The charm worked for exactly eight minutes. Then, with a self-important air she wriggled free and headed towards the door: “I have things to do.”
“Ah, assumed too soon!,” he said to himself, as he saw her retreat. “Okay, next time then. I have to succeed,” he said aloud as he now settled on the recliner.
He loved her more than life itself. Whatever time he could salvage from the pressures and turmoil of his demanding life, he just tried to spend with her.
When he was a child, they had lived through difficult times. Money was scarce and half-hungry stomachs were several. He was forced to grow up early to hold the reins. When childhoods die, a collateral is born. For him, the collateral was books.
He could still recall the days that followed his discovery of a tattered copy of Gulliver’s Travels in his uncle’s discarded wooden chest. The memory of missing school, hiding in the cow shed and gulping down the series, came rushing back to him. And the recollection of the thrashing he had got for ‘wasting time on story-books’, was as fresh as if preserved in Antarctic ice.
The life coach
His compatriot and life coach, Gulliver, kept him sane through rough times. Often he imagined being marooned and discovering Lilliput and Laputa. He was Gulliver. Unlike Gulliver, however, he never made his escape. Unlike Gulliver, he decided to put up with the mundane-ness. Unlike Gulliver, he realised there really was no escape. He stayed put to look after the little people. He worked hard to make their lives worthwhile. Now that he had become one of the little people, he had vowed to shield her from it.
So, yesterday, when she had enquired, ‘What’s a novel?,’ he grabbed the opportunity to introduce her to his best friend and bond them for life. He visualised her sinking into the depths of the printed world to weave her own story, away from the little people.
Those memories
Jolting back to the present, his lips curved to form a slight smile. It was the smile that accompanies bitter-sweet memories of the past.
With Jonathan Swift’s magnum opus still in his hands, he heaved a heavy sigh, just as his six-year-old dashed into the room and jumped into his lap.
“Bappa, let’s continue the book,” she flipped the book open. He replied: “Why, I thought you had important things to do.”
“But I want to know if Gulliver was able to escape Lilliput! Did they blind him? Where does he go next? You told me there are flying people in the story. Can he return to England? Tell me, Bappa,” she demands of him, flicking the pages anxiously.
He plants a kiss on her forehead and embraces her tightly. With that, they continue reading.
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