When I was 10 years old, I asked my father for a copy of Rebecca. I had won an abridged version of the book as a prize for a debate competition at school, and I was fascinated by the trials and tribulations of the mysterious Mrs. De Winter, her marriage to a much older widower and her obsession with his dead first wife – the book’s namesake. Snobby little me considered it quite an affront that the school had decided to give me an abridged version. I had to have the “grown-up” version.
It was the mid-2000s, and I was living in a remote township in Chhattisgarh. There were no bookstores, no Amazon, and no libraries. So, every time my father went on a work-related trip, I would hand him a list of titles. He rarely stuck to the list. Some books on it he considered me too old for – he once swapped out a Famous Five title for Charles Dickens’ Oliver Twist. Other times he simply lost the list, so he would pick up whatever his eyes fell on at the Delhi airport bookstore.
But with Rebecca, he really tried. I had made it very clear how important it was that he got it for me. I told him it was fine if it was the only book he got me on that trip, but that he must get it. For the first time, he actually visited a bookstore outside of the airport to look for my book. He came home looking very pleased with himself and handed it to me. And my heart broke.
