The colouring book

‌This incident happened several years ago, yet it feels like it was in the recent past that it remains etched to my memory. I have always loved colouring books. There's something about them that draws me towards them. I actually don't colour the pages. It's the illustrations, the comical representation of animals, the very fact that it stares at you bleakly waiting for you to fill inside the thick outlines with colours of your choice. For a minute you feel like you are the creator and these are your masterpieces. The colours slowly breathe life into the picture and thus is born a memento of your lonely afternoon. When I was a child, these books were quite exorbitantly priced, It was a middle-class fantasy that had sprung up in my head to own a colouring book. It remained unfulfilled. I grew up, took up a job and eventually moved out of my home. I went to a book store to pick up some stationery when my eyes caught sight of a colouring book. I was pleasantly surprised to see the level of detail. I casually flipped the pages to spot the price tag. It was well within my budget. I was ecstatic. This was such a happy occasion. I was being with joy that I couldn't stop smiling. It was as if I unearthed a treasure. I brought it back carefully and placed it among my books. Every day I looked at it admiringly like it was the signed copy of an autobiography of my hero. To me, it was the best reminder of my childhood. To my younger self, it was like the biggest achievement of a lifetime. Over time it became a routine, I started using this memory as an escape to splurge on anything that caught my fancy. Dolls die-cast cars, comic books, things that didn't even exist in my childhood became my new obsession. I was closed partly in guilt, but I let it slide citing childhood insufficiencies and deprivations. My room became a toy store. I became the joke of many adults who thought I was pregnant. My nephews and nieces refused to leave the room when they came. My regular stuff started getting stacked on floors making walking and cleaning very taxing.

One fine morning, my maid arrived with her son. She excused herself saying that the father had to go out of town and she couldn't leave him alone at home. I was slightly irritated since I knew that he would plant himself in my room and play with my toys.i was also sceptical of the fact that kids tend to cling on to a toy and refuse to let go eventually forcing me to give up on the toy. I reluctantly allowed him in. He was clearly in awe of the toys that stood in front of him. He let out a shout of glee and sat on the floor.i towered over his tiny frame, lest he pulled something off the shelves in excitement. But he did nothing of the sort. He sat in the centre, looking around him and gasping in awe. He inched closer to the shelves, ran a tiny finger on the fur of the dolls, and marvelled in the feeling. He remained like this until she finished her chores. When it was time for them to leave, I expected him to latch on to a toy and howl. When he saw his mother, he kept the car he was playing with on the lower shelf and ran towards her. He didn't pocket anything, neither did he throw a tantrum. I was surprised. I asked her how she had raised him to be so well mannered at such a young age Her reply struck me.
"Madam, I earn by scrubbing vessels I cannot afford to give him even one toy that you have hoarded in this room. But eventually, he will be going to school and other houses with me. If he starts to ask for their toys or books, that will result in me not having a job. He will also be unwelcome. When he was younger, I taught him that if people give you a toy, you have to play with it and return it back intact. If you love the toy, then be even more cautious since you may get another shot at playing with it. Maybe, I will buy it after you after saving a little month after month. But if you steal it or break it, you are breaking their trust with that. You will never get it again.i don't know how much he understands, but he hasn't broken anything ever since, especially when it belongs to someone else"
I was amazed.i was an independent woman working my way out. I had no deprivation in my childhood.my parents provided me with all that they could have ever afforded. Yet here I was, hoarding my room with junk I didn't need simply because I thought I deserved everything I missed out. A child who less privileged than I was returning the toys to me. When I should have stopped with one book, this room was more shamefully filled with things that I would never use for myself. I was ridden with guilt. I had the maid to pick any one toy of her choice for her son. She was at a loss of words. She knew how particular I was. She also knew how capricious I'd get. She said that she didn't want her son to be influenced and think that she could ever afford these toys. I insisted. She gave in and asked the boy to pick a toy of his choice. She instructed him to pick the smallest of the lot. The boy stared at the shelves real hard. He had his eyes fixed on my Batman statue.l was petrified. That statue was a rare find in the streets of Bali. I paid to extra baggage to get it to my shelf. I would be doomed if he picked it. He froze his finger on Batman. I gulped in some tears. Why did I have to be benevolent? Why could I have not stored away my toys like everyone did?
My maid chided the boy. She knew that the doll he picked was expensive. I had to keep my word. I handed it to the boy while he nodded his head. His finger was still in the air. I traced an imaginary dotted line from.his Nail to the shelf. The little imp was pointing toward my only colouring book.