Short Story – The Gift That Wasn’t
Vishwa thought Secret Santa would be fun—a chance to unwrap a thoughtful gift from a friend. When he received the biggest, brightest red box, his heart soared with excitement. But what seemed like a simple gift turned into something more complicated, revealing hidden boundaries and painful lessons. In this short story, “The Gift That Wasn’t,” discover how one gift can build perspectives.
Vishwa had always seen the world in shades of friendship, laughter, and shared lunches. Growing up in Lucknow, he attended a convent school where the teachers prioritized open conversations with and amongst the students. Complex topics like religion, casteism, social sects, and many alike were dealt with maturity that helped Vishwa hold a broader view on society. Festivals were a shared joy, and religious differences, nothing more than different colors in the same crayon box.
It was the holiday season, and the ninth graders were abuzz with excitement for the annual Secret Santa. Vishwa loved the thrill of it – the guessing, the surprise, and the joy of giving. It was a small tradition in their class but one that brought everyone together. This year, Vishwa drew his close friend Armaan’s name, and with great care, he chose a set of colorful gel pens. They were simple, thoughtful, and something Armaan would love.
The day of the gift exchange arrived, and the classroom was filled with the sound of torn wrapping paper and gleeful gasps. Vishwa’s eyes sparkled as he watched his friends unwrap their presents, but his excitement doubled when he spotted the largest gift box sitting at the back of the room, wrapped in shiny red paper with a big red bow. He wished that the box could come his way.
“Whoa, look at the size of that!” Anu exclaimed, nudging Vishwa.
Sarah ma’am started with the proceedings by calling out names in alphabetic order. Vishwa was the second one to walk tall and graciously gift the gel pen set to Armaan. A strong handshake and the friendship went multi-bound.
“Oh! I’m V. By the time ma’am calls me, the red box will be gone!” Vishwa was worried. Deepak, Jalal, Mayank, Neha, Peter, and Sartaj – the red box was still there ungifted. Vishwa was hopeful. And finally, Veeren was called out out, the red box was still untouched. Chances were 50/50 now.
“Vishwa”, called Sarah. Peter stood up to grace the occasion.
And, Vishwa couldn’t believe it – it was the red box, and it was his. His heart raced as he picked it up, feeling the weight of it in his hands. It was heavy, and his cheeks flushed with joy and anticipation. He felt special, chosen, like a little kid all over again.
With everyone’s eyes on him, Vishwa carefully tore the wrapping, his smile growing wider with every rip. Inside was a beautifully crafted idol of Jesus, serene and gentle, with eyes that seemed to hold the kindness of the world. Vishwa’s face lit up; he loved the gift instantly. It felt like more than a gift – it was a thoughtful gesture from his Secret Santa.
“Wow, this is amazing!” Vishwa beamed, admiring the details of the statue. “Thank you Peter, my Secret Santa!”
Vishwa got to home after school. He proudly showed the idol to his mother and searched her smile as she always did when he was excited about something.
“What is this?” she asked, her voice tinged with a disapproval Vishwa had never heard before.
“It’s a gift, Ma. My Secret Santa Peter gave it to me. Isn’t it beautiful?” Vishwa said, his voice filled with innocence.
But his mother’s expression hardened. “Vishwa, this isn’t our belief.. Why are you bringing home something like this? ”
Vishwa was taken aback. He had never seen his mother react this way to any of his school activities. “Ma, it’s just a gift. It’s not about religion—it’s just… nice.”
But his mother wouldn’t hear it. She ranted about beliefs, boundaries, and how they shouldn’t bring home things that didn’t align with their faith. For the first time, Vishwa saw a harsh line drawn in a world he had always viewed as a united canvas. His mother’s words stung, piercing through his young mind.
“Ma, it’s just a statue. It doesn’t change who I am,” he tried to reason, feeling the swell of emotions choke his voice. He couldn’t resist his tears anymore. His little heart broke into pieces.
Despite Vishwa’s quiet protests and hurt eyes, the idol was eventually wrapped up again and given away, re-gifted to someone else as a Christmas present.
Vishwa watched helplessly as his mother handed over the idol with a smile. It felt as though a piece of his world had been chipped away.
“Why did Ma reacted that way,” his heart ached not just because of the gift but because it was a gesture from a friend. His group of friends will discuss the gift the next day, but what would he have.
Dinner was done and Vishwa was off to bed. Staring at the ceiling, messing up with emotions he had never felt before.
He didn’t resent his mother; he knew she was guided by her beliefs, just as he was by his own sense of right. But a quiet resolve began to grow in Vishwa. He wouldn’t let this experience shape his view of the world. He would hold on to the lessons of openness and acceptance that his school, his friends, and his heart had taught him.
The next day at school, Vishwa thanked Peter again, with a smile that hid his grief. The idol was gone, but the friendship remained—stronger than the boundaries that had tried to tarnish it.
Vishwa learned a lesson. The world, no matter how beautiful it is, has lines drawn in sand. But these lines were not unbreakable. And one day, he hoped, they would all be erased by the simple, honest belief that we are all just people, sharing the same sky.
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