Two years ago I lent my friend Zaid a thick cricket book that my uncle had given
me. He said he'd read it in a week. I asked once after a month and he said,
I'm halfway. After 6 months I asked again. He said, I'll bring it Friday. He never said which
Friday. I didn't push. It felt silly to chase a friend over a paperback, so I let
it slide. Now it's a running joke between us. When we meet he pats his bag and says,
not today. I laugh along, but my uncle wrote my name on the first page, in blue pen.
It's the only thing he ever wrote for me, and it's sitting on a shelf
in Zaid's flat. I've never told Zaid that, because it would sound dramatic coming from
a grown man over a book. I looked for another copy online last week. It's
out of print, and the only used one is 1,400 rupees. That's roughly 3 times
what the book cost new. I almost ordered it, then felt stupid halfway through. Why
should I pay again for a book that Zaid already has? That's what I told myself.
It didn't work. I closed the tab and went to make tea, still annoyed at
both of us. I've lent things since and I always say a date now. Zaid
has borrowed a charger and returned it in 2 days. So he can do it.
He's just decided the book belongs to him. Next time he pats his bag, I
might walk over to his flat and stand in front of that shelf. I'll say nothing.
I'll just look at it for a bit.