“Life is too short to read books you don’t like.” She muttered to herself, flipping the novel shut in frustration and thumping it on her study table that already had a mountain of untouched books piled up on one end. The book, The Sense of An Ending by Julian Barnes, was a Booker Prize winner but Shweta didn’t care a hoot for it. Her palms grabbed the arms of the chair and she glided it backwards to stand up.  

Her father was in the habit of bringing books for her he thought she would benefit from and Shweta didn’t have the heart to tell him to stop. On the contrary, in her effort to impress the intellectuals at home, she rummaged through their library and picked books she knew they particularly enjoyed. Sadly, Shweta’s taste was lacking. The 23-year-old English Honours graduate wanted something thrilling, something gripping, something more appealing than The Alchemist and Wings of Fire. Men in her family, however, were slightly disappointed whenever they found her buried neck-deep in a mystery by Dan Brown or immersed in the dreamy world of Jane Austen. Not that they ever mentioned it to her.

Sauntering towards her queen-size dark wood bed, she decided to tell him the truth. If nothing else, he will stop wasting his money, she assured herself. She climbed inside the sheets, pressed the on button on the remote control of her TV, and fell into a slumber while contemplating what exactly she would say to him tomorrow morning.

Her father was sitting at the head of the dining table, reading the newspaper like every morning. His face was hidden behind the newspaper but Shweta had every wrinkle memorised. The long, world-weary face had lost its youth but his brown eyes still sparkled whenever he gave one of his lopsided smiles. Jet black and thick with hair, his Tom Selleck moustache gave him a dashing look, just like the actor, while his bushy eyebrows with no arch had the opposite effect of giving the impression of being unapproachable. For the most part of her life, Shweta had been terrified of her father; it didn’t help that he felt like a giant at six feet, when she was only five foot two inches. Since his hair started thinning out a few years ago, Shweta saw traces of consciousness and vanity in him. Every few minutes, he would run his hand over his balding head, still with a hint of surprise that he was getting old.

He always had the same expression while reading the newspaper—his smile turned upside down, his eyebrows knitted together in disconcertion. He devoured one article after another about crime and corruption, growing irate every second, and mumbling about the parasites of this nation.

Fidgeting with her fingers, Shweta mentally prepped herself up and marched towards the mahogany dining table in the middle of the spacious room. “Dad, I have to ask you something,” she spoke as she stopped two feet away from him.  

Folding the newspaper neatly, he returned her gaze as he said in a throaty voice, “Come, sit by me.” He gestured towards the chair on his right as he took a sip of his unsweetened tea. His heavy voice always had a friendly touch. Never had he unjustly raised his voice on his children or wife but his controlled manner was much more terrifying that any raised words could be. 

She crossed the distance in two steps, ran her hands on her skirt as she sat down. Let’s get this over with, she chanted in her head, still fidgeting with her fingers and avoiding looking at him.

“Dad, I hate the books you gift me.” She announced loudly before she lost her nerve.

She finally raised her eyes to look at him to gauge his reaction. He blinked and asked, “What?”

“I hate the books you gift me. They are too serious for my taste but I read them because you and Bhaiya are always talking about them and I don’t want to seem unintelligent,” she reiterated, gaining more confidence with each passing word.  

She may have been mistaken but she heard her father take a sigh. Then he declared, “Thank God! Your brother and I were so bored of these books.”

Now was her time to be staggered, “What?”

Her father’s hand returned to his hair, or lack thereof, and he admitted, “You were always reading heavy books, Greek mythology, feminist literature, Booker Prize winning books. I felt quite embarrassed buying Jeffery Archer, Agatha Christie, and Robin Cook. Your brother is secretly reading Dan Brown on his phone.”

“But I don’t even like those books. Those were all my course books and I had no option but to eat them up,” she explained unable to control her animated hand gestures, for the situation seemed so bizarre.

He stared at her strangely for a few seconds and the next moment, he erupted in laughter, and the sound rumbled in the room.