The writer they deserve

Sometimes I do not wish to write. It is a fear of falling short of expectations. Maybe this story is not as good as the last one, maybe it will not seem real enough; one of the characters might talk too much or come across as fake; and then there is always a temptation of twisting the end. But writing is much like life, no matter how much we liked it today, there will always be a tomorrow, there will always be good and bad times.

I was happy when I did not consider myself a writer, for I could write whatever came to my mind, in most uninhibited and candid manner. But then they said that you are a good writer and ever since I have to live up to that so called definition of ‘good’. Unlike me, he enjoyed being a writer. I hated that about him. I asked him once “Why do you not delve deep into human emotions, write about human misery, anger and happiness?” He smiled and just answered “I don’t deal in chemical reactions.” His characters were flowery, pointless, superfluous and pompous. I told him that I had read books in which animals talk, far better than his work. He simply agreed with me and said “My friend, it is only natural. Animals make much wiser talk.” It became my obsession to criticise both his work and his indifference towards its futility.

I remember that morning more clearly than I remember what I ate for lunch today. I was standing near the lake. Rays of sun were reflecting so much that I had to turn around as I waited with a troubled head. Police kept trying but could not locate his body. We would have never known about it, if it was not for a kid who had seen him earlier that morning. The kid said that he walked calmly into the lake and kept walking till he disappeared. Later that evening I kept sitting beside the lake, imagining him with his smile; a smile with which he disarmed the world and mocked it with each word he wrote. What troubled me most is that how can a person who was so nonchalant about his approach towards world, could take such a grave decision. I had trouble imagining what kind of agony he must have been going through, which he used to hide behind his deceptive smile.

The news of his suicide went viral. People, who had never heard of him, were talking about him in their business meetings; publishers who did not touch his work were now digging his grave (not literally) to find an unpublished novel, a half story written by him. Characters of his story were famous now. They were talk of the town. People wore costumes described by him to book reading forums and in local festivals. There was talk about making a movie, on misadventures of a stupid cop, based on one of his novels.

I kept staring at a blank sheet of paper and could write nothing, for no matter what I thought of writing, I felt guilt. Thought of writing something meaningful brought me a pain, a feeling that I was somehow deceiving him; that he was standing somewhere near and was mocking me. He had never criticised my work, but now it felt that he had being doing it all along. He had proved that after all everything is futile, like pretentious and hollow characters of all his stories. I hated them and I hated him, for taking away everything I had; my sense of purpose, the characters which I was proud of and a society which revalidated my beliefs.

I received a package today. It was from him. I kept staring in disbelief. My hands trembled when I opened it. There was a letter. It said –

“My friend, you were right all along. However you would have understood by now, this society only deserves the garbage I write.

PS: Please find my new book under my new name and in this one, animals talk. Hope you will enjoy it.”  

A life lived again

“Only some minutes more” he thought.  When he came here first, he observed that people had a strange habit of looking at the sky every now and then. He had spent only ten days when he started to look at the sky. He was one of them now; eyes looking at the scorching sun, a prayer on lips and a growing anger chewing through the senses. But this was not the first time he was angry, over time he had learnt to smile. Exactly like his father who always smiled to hide the pain and the venom building inside him.

He was there, when his father won the title of Rustam-e-hind, the great wrestler of India. The whole village went to railway station and carried his father home. There were continuous celebrations for a week in his honour. He had never seen his father happier. The thing about movies is that they end at the highest point in a person’s life, but real life is much different. One has to live and spend each minute of his life. To live a heroes life, is the most sought after, but he watched his father longing for that attention, that honour every minute of his life. His father used to look at the newspaper clippings for hours. The people, who earlier cajoled his father for hearing his story, now avoided him for they got bored of his self-praise.  He watched his father grew weaker everyday without a reason to live till one day when he found him dead in bed clutching the trophy to his chest.

After his father’s death, he moved to this village, where no ghost of his father’s fame followed him, where he is free to look like an idiot staring at the sky. It had been a month post monsoon and there was no sign of clouds. But the rain God was hard to please, the priests chanted:

“O Indra, Dancer, Much-invoked! as thy great power is unsurpassed,
So be thy bounty to the worshipper unchecked.
Most Mighty, most heroic One, for mighty bounty fill thee full.
Though strong, strengthen thyself to win wealth, Maghavan!
O Thunderer, never have our prayers gone forth to any God but thee:
So help us, Maghavan, with thine assistance now.
For, Dancer, verily I find none else for bounty, saving thee,
For splendid wealth and power, thou Lover of the Song.” ¹

Rain God was not pleased. “He is only pleased with true devotion. These, money minded fraud, priests are not good for swaying the God” they said.

His father often came home drunk. In his half asleep state, he always used to mutter “Don’t live a hero’s life.”

He saw Rain God in his dreams today, or was it his father in a God’s attire. “Help these people” the God said. “But you always told me not to become a hero” he questioned. The God smiled and said “No! I told you not to live a hero’s life.” He was fully awake now. He knew what was to be done. He walked up to the temple and sat in prayer. At first people did not notice, but when he sat unmoved for hours, people started gathering around him. They understood that he was praying for the rain. Finally they had a true devotee. He sat unmoved for days. Men watched him in amazement and women with tears at his devotion. No one was watching the sky any longer.

He had to be a hero, like his father. But unlike his father, he had to die a hero’s death; a death, which will make him immortal for years to come.

Finally the Rain God was pleased. The sky was filled with dark clouds. “Some minutes more” he thought. When first lightning struck, he knew it was time. He was walking towards a light and then absolute dark.

“You did what I could not, my son” his father said with a trophy in his hand.

He opened his eyes. He had passed out. Somebody held his head in arms and helped him drink some water. He realised that he was not dead. People picked him on their shoulders. They danced around him. He was a hero.

“I have failed you father” He said.

¹ Rig Veda, Book 8, Hymn XXIV Indra

What’s with his smile?

I thought about him for an hour before I started writing this down. I wanted to find a word that describes him perfectly. It is then when I realised that perhaps I do not know him too well for describing him in even one sentence let alone a single word. Infact, I think nobody knew him well enough to say something about him conclusively. For the sake of completing my objective and at the same time not being wrong about him, I would say that he was an elusive man. He is like a person who meets you everyday, greets you, asks about your health, gives his best wishes and leaves; without giving you a chance to get interested in his life. Everybody can recall one such person around them, this incident is about mine.

During my various encounters with him, I got curious. What troubled me most was his smile. I had never seen him not smiling. How could a person always be happy? I wanted to find more about him, but was not sure how to catch him. We were not friends, so obviously asking straight questions would have been weird. As the days passed, I became obsessed with finding out what kept him happy. My efforts of following him went in vain. He kept on greeting and meeting people. It seemed that he did not have any friends. Each evening after college, he used to leave straight for home leaving no scope for any social interaction. Just when I was about to give up, one day I saw him sitting alone in cafeteria. I gathered courage and at the risk of being snubbed, I walked upto him and asked if could join him. He nodded. After some niceties, I could not control any longer and asked him about his life. At first he did not open much, but then I told him my obsession and he agreed to tell me about his life if I promised not to tell anyone about it. Obviously I agreed.

He started “I was eight when I lost my father. He is not dead, it’s just that I don’t know where he is. Not only do I not know where he is, also that who is my father. I vaguely remember his face. I don’t remember actually seeing him, so maybe the face I remember is actually my imagination. I would have asked my mom, and believe me I wanted to ask many times. But there is no point asking her. It is not as if she would not tell me, it’s just that she cannot tell me. She has not spoken with me for last fifteen years; not only with me but with anybody. She lost ability to speak, the night my father left. Sometimes I feel she wants to tell something but then she does not. She would have written if she could, but she is paralysed for many years now. I could have asked other family members but I do not know of any. When my father left us, she had moved here to get away from everybody and now here I am, with my mom and nobody else. And that’s why I keep smiling because I know that it possibly cannot get any worse.”

I kept thinking about him and his life. I was troubled with his smile and now I was cursing myself for thinking being jealous of his happiness. I knew what I had to do. I was to become the friend he never had, the brother he never had and the family he never had. But I decided to take it slow so that he does not feel that I am doing this out of sympathy for him. So I greeted him with smile whenever I met him, asked him how he was and wished him well. I kept going to cafeteria several times a day hoping to find him there.

After seven days and forty visits to cafeteria, I finally saw him sitting with somebody else. I sat behind him waiting for the other person to leave so that I can turn and exclaim at what coincidence it was that we were again meeting in cafeteria. Since it was taking time, I decided to eavesdrop the conversation. I could not hear what the other person said, but I cannot forget till day what he answered.

“Ok. I will tell you, but only if you promise you never to tell anyone else. I was born into a middle class family. My father had an insane obsession of buying lottery tickets. My mother used to fight with him a lot on this habit, but only till he got a $1 mn as first prize. He never bought another lottery ticket. He invested in stock markets and quadrupled the sum in one year. He then invested in real estate and commodities and in ten years’ time, he now runs the fifth largest commodity fund in the country. A year back he gave me $0.1mn and told me to start investing in my area of interest. One year will be over next week. The sum is $1mn today. I keep smiling because it cannot get any better”