Dolls

Another story. This time a leaf from my own book of life

I am a single child. My closest companion was my cousin brother. We’ll call him ‘A’. He was a year younger than me but at times it seemed the reverse because he was always the leader in our games. He was the dominant one while I was the free-spirited, faithful follower.

A and I were drawn to each other for two reasons.

Firstly because of our initial naughtiness and secondly in our passion for cars! All my aunts and uncles, moving with tradition, gifted me with dolls. However I was not the stereotype girl.

Many did not know that I preferred toy cars to the blue-eyed, dimple-smiled and curly locked miniatures which turned up on birthdays.

A had a sister called ‘H’. She was the typical cherubic, sweet, pink-clad lass. I was the dark angel – two worlds merged into one. To put it into simple terms you could have called me a ‘tomboy’.

A and I were the pranksters and though H tried to join in our games she was more of a nuisance than a delight. Maybe it was her age and manners which prevented her from being whole-heartedly accepted into the clan but we were duty conscious that we needed to look after her.

Whatever we did, we kept a sharp eye on her. A’s mischief was infectious. He was constantly punished.

I soon discovered that if you put on your most angelic smile coupled with a bewildered look, you can get away with almost anything.

Eureka! It was a revelation indeed and one I exploited endlessly and unashamedly to my benefit.

The maximum I received was a few stern words ‘not to do it again’ which I forgot within a couple of minutes!

Then the inevitable happened. An aunt was due from a holiday in Australia. We were excited, especially because it meant chocolates and gifts. As usual I had to brace myself to accept the doll but things took a different turn that day.

She was not at all like any of the ones I possessed. Life-size and almost life-like, you would have mistaken her for an actual child from afar.

The brown eyes, golden tresses and white dress with blue, yellow and green splashed charmed me. Something inside me snapped and for once I was blissfully happy.

My happiness was short lived. H who had been gifted a smaller doll took a fancy to mine. Whenever we tried to take the doll from her she broke into tears. Finally my mother beckoned to me. I knew bad news was on the way.

“You know you are not keen on dolls...”

“But, Amma, this is different.”

My reputation was at stake but I was desperate.

“It will make her very happy, Shehara... and you too will feel good.”

That was how it happened. Nearly a year passed. We visited them again.

I saw her again only... frock missing, hair tangled, face dirty and one arm gone – you could barely recognize her. A hint of sadness gripped me but I turned a blind eye. If she had been with me I know that she would be as good as brand new. My only comfort was the thought that whatever I did, I did it to make someone else happy.

“Why, Shehara. That’s very touching...”

My friend who had related last week’s story said.

I smiled but did not add more. She doesn’t know.

The hand that gives will always give. That day I gave away my childhood fantasy but today I have given away my life’s joy. But I know that if what happened to that doll should happen to you, let me not live to see that fate.

I gave you away to build a better world for yourself. Not to see you destroyed.

Shehara.
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