Eighty-seven rupees and fifty paise. That was all Seema had saved. And thirty paise of it was in coins. Small coins saved one by one, bargaining hard with the sabziwala, the doodhwala, and the baniyaan until her cheeks burned from the silent shame of such persistent haggling. Three times Seema counted it. Eighty-seven rupees and fifty paise. And tomorrow would be Christmas.
In their small rental flat in a crowded Mumbai chawl, celebrating Christmas was an annual tradition carried over from Seema's Christian family roots, though she and Raj followed a mix of faiths and customs. For Indians of all backgrounds, the holiday had become an opportunity to exchange gifts and enjoy festive sweets and delicacies with loved ones. And Seema desperately wanted to give Raj a truly special present this year.
There was nothing left for Seema to do but sink down heavily onto the thin mattress on the floor, trying to stifle her sobs so as not to disturb the neighbors in the cramped chawl. Life had its ups and downs, she knew, but at this moment the disappointment felt overwhelming. 
As Seema gradually composed herself, her eyes swept across their small rental flat. It was a humble dwelling, to be sure, but sufficient for their simple needs. The walls may have been bare and the furnishings sparse, but it was a place imbued with loving memories of the year since she and Raj had married.
On the cracked plaster wall outside their small rental home, a faded metal plate bore the name "Rajesh Joshi" - though in truth, few remembered when Raj had last used his full name. These days, with his income as a clerk dwindling to barely enough for rent and essentials, the once prestigious-sounding surname seemed almost an indulgence. Yet whenever Raj climbed the worn concrete stairs to their flat above the din of the bustling Mumbai chawl, he was greeted with a tight embrace and a warm "Mere Raj" from his devoted wife Seema.
Seema dried her tears and turned her gaze to the window. Outside, a colorful tableau of Mumbai life unfolded - vendors with handcarts piled high with fragrant spices and fresh produce, rickshaws weaving through the narrow lanes, neighbors exchanging cheerful banter from adjacent homes in the bustling chawl. Tomorrow would be Christmas, and she had only one hundred and fifty rupees left to buy a gift for her Raj.
For months, Seema had carefully saved whatever she could from Raj's modest clerk's salary of three thousand rupees per month. But living expenses, even in their humble rental home, always seemed to stretch their limited means. One hundred and fifty rupees - it seemed such a meager amount to express her boundless love for the man who meant everything to her. She had dreamed of finding something truly special, a gift whose inherent beauty and the pure intention behind it would render monetary worth insignificant. Something to honor the profound bond she shared with her husband, a man of such fundamental goodness that even a humble offering from the heart felt undeserving of his virtues.
In the corner of their modest rental home stood a small wall-mounted mirror, a simple fixture common in Indian households. Though the mirror's size was modest, Seema, being slender, had learned to tilt it at different angles to catch a full view of her reflection. With this humble mirror, she could observe her appearance from various perspectives, an art she had patiently mastered over time.
Suddenly, Seema whirled from the window and stood before the small mirror. Her eyes shone brilliantly, but her face had paled within seconds. Rapidly, she undid her long plait and let her lustrous tresses cascade down to their full length. There were two prized possessions that Seema and Raj cherished above all else. One was Raj's great-grandfather's vintage brass compass, an heirloom passed down through generations. The other was Seema's long, raven-black hair - her crowning glory. Had the wealthiest woman in the city lived across the chawl, Seema would have let her tresses hang out the window to dry, just to outshine even the most exquisite set of bangles. And had a great king been their chawl's watchman, Raj would have proudly displayed his great-grandfather's compass each time they crossed paths, just to see the ruler's envy.
Seema's raven tresses cascaded down like a shimmering waterfall, the lustrous strands rippling and glistening like liquid silk as they tumbled past her knees, enveloping her slender frame in a sari-like drape. For a fleeting moment, she faltered, her trembling fingers instinctively replaiting the long plait with nervous haste. A solitary tear escaped the corner of her eye, splashing onto the faded, cracked tiles of their humble rental home, a poignant testament to the depth of her sacrifice and the boundless love she held for her Raj.
Seema draped her faded cotton sari tightly around her slender frame and gently arranged her well-worn dupatta over her shoulders. With a graceful sway and a determined sparkle in her eyes, she emerged from their humble rental home and made her way down the worn concrete steps to the bustling lanes of the Mumbai chawl.
A hand-painted sign on a nearby storefront caught her eye: "Laxmiben's Baal Vyavasaay - Sab Prakar Ki Baal Samagri." Seema hurried up the narrow stairwell, pausing to catch her breath as she reached the small shop's entrance. The proprietress, Laxmiben, was a stout, pale woman with an aloof demeanor that hardly matched the warmth suggested by her name.
"Will you buy my hair?" Seema asked in a tremulous voice.
"I buy hair," Laxmiben replied flatly. She gestured with a practiced hand. "Let me see."
Seema's raven tresses cascaded down in a glistening waterfall. "One thousand eight hundred rupees," Laxmiben declared, lifting and appraising the long locks.
"I'll take it," Seema said resolutely.
The next few hours passed in a whirlwind as Seema scoured the bustling Mumbai markets for the perfect gift for her Raj. She wove through the colorful bazaars overflowing with handcrafted treasures, spices, fabrics, and more, searching fervently for something truly special.
At last, she found it - a simple yet exquisite leather case, its rich brown hues burnished to a soft glow. There was no other like it in the bustling Mumbai markets she had scoured from Dadar to Colaba. It seemed crafted for no one else but her beloved Raj. The artisan's hand had shaped it with an understated elegance that spoke of quiet dignity, its value proclaimed through the supple leather's quality rather than ostentatious ornamentation.
It was a piece worthy of enshrining Raj's most cherished possession - his great-grandfather's antique brass compass, an heirloom imbued with the wanderlust and spirit of adventure passed down through generations. As soon as Seema's eyes fell upon the simple leather case, she knew it had to be Raj's gift. Its essence mirrored the man she adored - unassuming yet brimming with an innate, timeless grace.
The craftswoman quoted a price of one thousand seven hundred rupees, leaving Seema with just one hundred and fifty to make her way back through the teeming Mumbai lanes to their humble rental home. With this leather case to house his treasured compass, Raj could admire the intricate brass detailing and faded etchings without fear of tarnishing the delicate heirloom, taking justifiable pride in displaying it openly in any company. For though the compass was indeed grand, he had often concealed it in his pocket, reluctant to draw attention to the fraying fabric pouch that had long cradled the antique safely.
When Seema reached their humble rental home in the bustling Mumbai chawl, the euphoria of her find slowly gave way to pragmatism. She retrieved a small tin of coconut oil and set a kerosene angithi alight, preparing to tend to her shorn tresses. For undoing the ravages of generosity intertwined with love is always an immense undertaking, dear friends - a truly mammoth task.
In less than an hour, Seema's head was covered in a closecropped array of soft, wispy curls that lent her a striking resemblance to a young boy about to undergo the sacred mundan ceremony. She studied her reflection intently in the small wall mirror, scrutinizing her new appearance with a critical yet loving gaze.
"If Raj takes a second look at me, he'll think I resemble one of those outcast hijras from the Dharavi slums," Seema fretted. "But what choice did I have? How else could I afford a befitting gift with just one hundred and fifty rupees remaining?"
At 7 o'clock, a kettle of chai simmered fragrantly on the battered kerosene stove, ready to accompany the simple aloo sabzi Seema had prepared to welcome Raj home from work. The aroma of cumin and turmeric wafted through their humble rental home, mingling with the sweet, milky notes of the freshly-brewed chai.
Raj was never late. Seema clutched the leather case tightly and sat cross-legged on the cool tiled floor near the entrance of their humble rental home, where Raj would soon arrive from work. Then she heard the familiar sounds of his footsteps echoing up the worn concrete stairs of the bustling Mumbai chawl, and for a fleeting moment her heart raced with trepidation. Offering a silent prayer was second nature to Seema, even for life's smallest moments. Now she whispered fervently, "Please Bhagwan, let my Raj still find me beautiful."
The worn wooden door creaked open and Raj stepped into their humble rental home, gently pulling it closed behind him. His shoulders were slightly hunched and his brow furrowed, evidence of the day's wearying toil. Poor Raj, not yet twenty-five and already bearing the burden of providing for their small family.
Seema's heart raced as she took in his thin frame and the fraying cuffs of his shirt - he was in desperate need of new clothes, but such indulgences were unthinkable on his meager clerk's salary. Yet as Raj crossed the threshold, he froze abruptly, his gaze transfixed upon Seema with an expression she could not decipher. It was not one of anger, nor shock, nor displeasure - in fact, none of the reactions she had steeled herself for. He simply stared, utterly motionless, his eyes locked on her in that peculiar, inscrutable way.
Seema swiftly rose from the cool tiled floor and approached Raj, her heart overflowing with tenderness and trepidation. "Mere Raj," she called out imploringly, "please, don't look at me like that. I sold my hair because I couldn't bear to let another Christmas pass without giving you a gift from the depths of my heart. You'll still love me without my long tresses, won't you? I had no choice, my love. Say 'Merry Christmas' to me, and let us rejoice in our bond. You'll love the gift I found for you, I promise."
"You sold your hair?" Raj asked slowly, as if he was still trying to process what Seema had done. 
"Yes, I cut it all off and sold it," Seema replied. "Don't you still love me just as much? I'm still the same person without my long hair, aren't I?" 
Raj's eyes drifted around their humble rental home, taking in the sparse furnishings and bare walls as if seeing them anew.
"You sold your beautiful hair?" Raj asked in disbelief, his voice barely above a whisper as the realization sank in. "Mere Raj," Seema replied gently, "you needn't search any further. My tresses are gone - I sold them to a hair trader. But it's Christmas Eve, and I did it for you, out of love." She paused, her eyes shining with tender affection. "The number of strands may be finite, but my love for you could never be measured or contained. Now, let me serve you some simple aloo sabzi and fresh chapatis. We may be humble, but our bond transcends all material tokens."
Raj seemed to emerge from his trance-like state. He embraced Seema tightly, holding her close. Let us turn our attention elsewhere for a brief moment, out of respect for their private moment. Three thousand rupees a month or ten lakhs a year—what difference does it make? A mathematician or a wit would give you the wrong answer. The wise men brought precious offerings, but the greatest gift was not among them. The deeper meaning behind this will become clear soon.
Raj reached into the pocket of his faded cotton shirt and gently set a small bundle on the cool tiled floor between them. "Seema," he said tenderly, "please don't doubt my love for you. Whether your tresses flow long or you keep them cropped close, you are cherished just the same." His eyes shone with affection as he gestured towards the bundle. "But if you unwrap this gift, you'll understand why your new look gave me pause at first."
With trembling fingers, Seema tore through the simple wrapping to unveil Raj's gift. An ecstatic cry of joy escaped her lips - only to swiftly dissolve into heartbroken sobs that wracked her slender frame. For there, nestled in the crumpled paper, lay an exquisite set of polished gold bangles, the very ones she had longingly admired through the jeweler's window in the bustling Mumbai markets.
Bangles of breathtaking beauty, their rich golden hue reminiscent of the marigold flower's vibrant petals. Each one was intricately etched with delicate paisley motifs and studded with glittering gemstones that seemed to capture the twinkling of a thousand stars in the night sky. These were the very adornments Seema had craved her entire life, yearning to possess their timeless elegance without the faintest hope of fulfilling that desire.
And now these exquisite bangles were hers, yet the crowning glory meant to be adorned by their radiance was gone - her treasured tresses shorn and sold to secure Raj's gift. The bangles that should have been the cherished accompaniment to her grandmother's antique gold set, the family heirloom she had relinquished in an act of profound love.
Seema's anguished wails reverberated through the humble rental home, echoing with heartbreaking intensity that would undoubtedly draw concerned glances from neighbors in the close-knit Mumbai chawl. In that moment, all the tender hopes and dreams she had invested in this gift lay shattered at her feet.
But Seema clutched the exquisite bangles tightly to her heart, the cool metal gradually warming against her skin. At length, she was able to lift her gaze, eyes glistening with unshed tears yet a hopeful smile tugging at the corners of her lips. "My hair will grow back quickly, Mere Raj," she reassured him.
And then Seema leapt up like a startled cat, eyes widening. "Oh! Raj, you haven't seen your gift yet!" She held out her open palm eagerly, cradling the simple leather case. The soft, burnished leather seemed to glow with an inner radiance, reflecting the bright and ardent spirit behind Seema's sacrifice.
"Isn't it exquisite, Mere Raj?" Seema exclaimed, her eyes shining with delight. "I scoured every bazaar in Mumbai, from Dadar to Colaba, to find this perfect leather case for your cherished heirloom." She traced the burnished surface with reverent fingers. "Now you'll want to admire your great-grandfather's compass a hundred times each day."
Seema knelt on the cool tiled floor, cradling the simple yet elegant case. "Let me place the antique brass compass inside, so you can see how it looks nestled within." 
But instead of complying, Raj settled cross-legged beside her, a serene smile playing across his lips as he rested his hands behind his head in a posture of utter contentment.
"Meera," said he, "let's put our Christmas presents away and keep 'em a while. They're too nice to use just at present. I sold my great-grandfather's antique brass compass to get the money to buy your grandmother's exquisite gold bangles. And now suppose you serve us a simple meal."
The magi, you know, were wise men who brought precious gifts for the infant Jesus. They began the sacred tradition of exchanging presents at Christmas. As wise sages, their offerings were no doubt profound and thoughtful.  
And here I have humbly recounted the simple tale of Seema and Raj, a young couple in their humble Mumbai rental home, who unwittingly sacrificed their most cherished family treasures for each other. Seema parted with her grandmother's exquisite antique gold bangles, the crowning jewels meant to adorn her luscious tresses. While Raj sold his great-grandfather's vintage brass compass, an heirloom imbued with a wandering spirit passed through generations.
But in truth, my friends, it must be said that of all who engage in the act of gift-giving, these two embodied its purest essence. Through their unassuming yet profound sacrifices, Seema and Raj exemplified a wisdom akin to that of the magi themselves. For in this world, there are few gestures more sacred than an offering born of selfless love that transcends all material possession