When I was 13 or 14, my mother used to gift me books that I was

Host: The library had long been closed, but the light from the old lamps still burned softly in the corner windows, spilling gold across the rain-slick street. It was past midnight in the city, and the world outside had gone quiet—except for the gentle hum of a passing bus and the occasional sigh of the wind. Inside, among the rows of dusty bookshelves, two figures sat at a small reading table, surrounded by the scent of paper, ink, and the faint ghost of stories.

Jack leaned back in his chair, a worn paperback resting on his lap, the edges yellowed, his eyes tracing the fading title. Across from him, Jeeny sat cross-legged on the floor, her hair falling like a curtain over her shoulders as she turned the pages of a novel with almost sacred reverence.

Host: The air was still except for the sound of turning pages, a small, holy rhythm that felt older than language itself.

On the table lay a small note, torn from a magazine, with a quote scribbled in ink:
“When I was 13 or 14, my mother used to gift me books that I was dying to read. Those are my most memorable birthday gifts.” — Kajol

Jeeny: “It’s such a gentle kind of love, isn’t it? To be given a book, not just as a gift, but as a conversation. Like someone saying, ‘Here, I see what your heart wants before you do.’”

Jack: “Or maybe it’s just practical, Jeeny. Books are easy to wrap, don’t expire, don’t need charging. And they don’t talk back.”

Jeeny: “You really think it’s that simple? You of all people—sitting here surrounded by a thousand lives in paper—you think a book is just an object?”

Jack: “It’s ink and pulp. The meaning comes from you, not it. You can give someone a book, sure—but that doesn’t make it love. Sometimes a gift is just a gift.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. Sometimes it’s more than that. Sometimes it’s a key—to who you’ll become.”

Host: Jeeny’s voice carried softly, like the last note of a violin lingering in an empty hall. The rain outside began to tap against the glass again, slow and steady, like a forgotten memory knocking to be let in.

Jack: “So what, you think a few pages can shape a person?”

Jeeny: “Of course. You ever notice how some books don’t just teach, they haunt you? The ones that change how you see the world, how you see yourself. They become part of your memory, like a person you once knew.”

Jack: “Or like a lie you once believed.”

Jeeny: “You’re impossible.”

Jack: “No, I’m just realistic. You can fill a kid’s head with stories, but it doesn’t stop the world from breaking them later. You think books can protect you? Wait till life starts writing its own chapters.”

Jeeny: “But maybe that’s what books are for—to remind us that even the broken parts can be rewritten.”

Host: A flash of lightning cut across the window, spilling sharp white into the library. For a moment, the shelves looked alive—shadows of characters, authors, ghosts of thought all watching from the walls.

Jack stared at his book, his jaw tight, his voice quieter now.

Jack: “My mother never gave me books. She gave me tools. A hammer, a wrench, once even a knife set. Said they’d help me build something real. Guess that’s why I don’t dream in fiction.”

Jeeny: “That’s not so different, you know. She gave you what she thought would save you.”

Jack: “No. She gave me what would make me useful.”

Jeeny: “And what’s wrong with being useful?”

Jack: “It’s not the same as being seen.”

Host: The rain grew heavier, its rhythm becoming almost musical, like an orchestra outside the window. Jeeny looked at him, really looked—her eyes deep and steady, as if she could read the sentences behind his silence.

Jeeny: “You think a mother’s love is measured by what she gives. But it’s really measured by what she understands. Kajol’s mother knew what her daughter’s soul hungered for. That’s what made the gift beautiful.”

Jack: “Maybe. Or maybe she just got lucky. You romanticize everything.”

Jeeny: “No, I just refuse to believe that kindness is random. It’s deliberate. It’s the way we say, ‘I know what moves you.’”

Jack: “You ever think maybe not everyone gets that kind of knowing? Some of us don’t grow up with people who read our hearts. Some of us just learn to read ourselves.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe that’s why you’re here. Surrounded by all these stories—trying to find the one that sounds like you.”

Host: The silence that followed was tender, fragile. The rain softened to a whisper. Jack ran his thumb along the edge of the book, tracing it like a scar. His voice dropped to a near murmur.

Jack: “When I was fourteen, I wanted this one book—about astronomy. Couldn’t afford it. Used to go to the store every week, just to flip through it. The clerk caught me once, told me if I wasn’t buying, I should stop touching it. So I did.”

Jeeny: “Did you ever get it?”

Jack: “Years later. Found it in a used shop. Pages torn, cover cracked. Didn’t matter. I read it anyway.”

Jeeny: “And?”

Jack: “It made me feel like the sky was less empty. But by then, I’d already learned how small I was.”

Jeeny: “No one who looks up at the stars is small, Jack. Only the ones who stop looking.”

Host: The light flickered again. The clock on the wall ticked, soft but sure. The world outside was still dark, but the kind of dark that felt alive with possibility.

Jeeny stood, walking toward a nearby shelf. She pulled out an old book, its spine cracked, its title faded: The Little Prince. She placed it in front of him.

Jeeny: “Here. A book about wonder, written by a man who knew how to be both child and adult at once. Maybe it’s what your mother didn’t know how to give you.”

Jack: “And what’s that?”

Jeeny: “Permission—to dream without permission.”

Jack: “That’s not a real gift.”

Jeeny: “It’s the only one that lasts.”

Host: Jack took the book, his fingers lingering on its cover. The moment hung suspended—somewhere between memory and forgiveness.

The rain had stopped. Through the window, a faint glow of dawn touched the sky, thin but persistent.

Jeeny: “You see? That’s what she meant. Gifts aren’t about things; they’re about seeing someone’s hunger—and choosing to feed it.”

Jack: “You think that’s what love is?”

Jeeny: “No. I think that’s what makes love.”

Jack: “Then maybe… I never learned it.”

Jeeny: “You’re learning now.”

Host: The first light of morning slipped through the window, touching the edges of the books with a quiet golden fire. The camera would pull back slowly, framing the two of them in the soft glow—Jack with the book open in his hands, Jeeny watching him with that rare kind of hope that feels like silence before a song.

Host: In that stillness, something gentle was born—a truth whispered between pages and people: that the most powerful gifts are not the ones we unwrap, but the ones that remind us who we are, and who once believed we could be.