Amit Tripuraneni

A WRITER'S SECRET

	I don't want to be a writer. It is not that I don't enjoy writing. I am a simple, creative person, who enjoys living life and writing life. But when Shailesh Matiyani himself whispered to me a secret he had learnt, I decided to abstain from becoming a writer. White clouds surrounded me and the tranquility around was a writer's delight. It was when Shailesh Matiyani opened my eyes. I woke up panting and found myself in my bedroom with darkness engulfing me. I sat thinking - was this bedroom a dream or was the foray into clouds a dream? And then I remembered. Shailesh took me to an auditorium. I looked at my 1982 wristwatch and it's needles showed that it was 10.00. Since it was an old watch, it did not tell me whether it was day or night. I had always wondered over the technology as to how a watch can tell if it is day or night. Being a human being, I myself sometimes get confused between dawn and dusk, especially after an afternoon nap. But that's beside the point - the auditorium was full, not with people but with empty chairs. Except for a bunch of six old people sitting solemnly on the stage and the few sitting in the audience, the hall was by and large empty.

I don't want to be a writer. It is not that I don't enjoy writing. I am a simple, creative person, who enjoys living life and writing life. But when Shailesh Matiyani himself whispered to me a secret he had learnt, I decided to abstain from becoming a writer.

White clouds surrounded me and the tranquility around was a writer's delight. It was when Shailesh Matiyani opened my eyes. I woke up panting and found myself in my bedroom with darkness engulfing me. I sat thinking - was this bedroom a dream or was the foray into clouds a dream? And then I remembered.

Shailesh took me to an auditorium. I looked at my 1982 wristwatch and it's needles showed that it was 10.00. Since it was an old watch, it did not tell me whether it was day or night. I had always wondered over the technology as to how a watch can tell if it is day or night. Being a human being, I myself sometimes get confused between dawn and dusk, especially after an afternoon nap. But that's beside the point - the auditorium was full, not with people but with empty chairs. Except for a bunch of six old people sitting solemnly on the stage and the few sitting in the audience, the hall was by and large empty.

I was feeling cold and my nose was beginning to get ready for a 42 KM cross-country. I wanted to get up and tell the hall attendants to lower down the A.C blowers when the banner caught my eye. "The Contributions and Significance of Shailesh Matiyani in Post-Modern Hindi Literature - A Seminar in Tribute" I looked at the banner and then at Shailesh sitting by my side, chuckling to himself. The weight of the thought made me sit down, moreover I am not very good at weights. I pinched myself and assured myself that I was alive but suddenly a thought crossed my mind. "When are we here?" I asked myself.

Either I thought too loudly or Shailesh had an uncanny sense of hearing. "This is everywhere" he replied. It was like solving cryptic crossword puzzles that appear in the newspapers - the questions are cryptic and the answers even more cryptic. I am not very good at solving these cryptic crosswords and so I could not decipher the cryptic clue dropped on me by Shailesh. The ramblings coming from the stage were very uninteresting and it gave me a sense of Déjà vu, the same feeling I would have while watching a 3rd rate and boring movie. I couldn't decide whether it was my cold or the boring sermon coming from the stage, which heightened my sense to run out and drive myself dead through the Delhi traffic. Just the thought of driving through Delhi roads gives me the jitters, especially when every vehicle owner drives as if it was his personal fiefdom. The thought acted as a restrainer to keep myself seated and spellbound in the auditorium. Shailesh was chuckling in amusement, I couldn't tell why, as I couldn't hear his thoughts. I wondered when we would get the technology that would give us a machine to read others thoughts. But that again was a scary thought.

My stupor broke when I heard people trickling in - young students coming to impress their teachers, businessmen to find contacts for their business among the mass of people, wanna-be writers who had just one thing on their minds "wanna-be famous", poor souls looking for ways to cut the bureaucracy in getting their projects sanctioned, suspicious looking hungry characters who could eat all the seats had it not been for the announcement of free lunch which gave me a clue that it might be morning afterall; nobody could have lunch at 1.30 in the night. I was surprised because I could swear it had been 10.15 a moment ago and now it was 1.30, either I had fallen asleep or I was so engrossed in the rhythmic ramblings coming from the stage that I did not see time fly by. Ever since my childhood I have been trying to see time fly but even after 24 years of constant eye straining and practice I seem to miss the action.

I found myself in clouds again and suddenly my nose had stopped running. Shailesh was standing by an ice-cream vendor and was asking me "Which flavor will you have - Butter Scotch or Kesar Pista?" As I licked at the Kesar Pista bar offered to me, I turned towards Shailesh and asked, "Hey, that seminar sucked. Why did you take me there?" Shailesh chuckled again, which made me wonder if he had taught chicken how to chuckle. "I wanted to show you the truth, my friend. And what you saw is the truth." Shailesh continued, "I was a writer, who wrote for awakening the conscience of the society. But look at my life - I lived like a beggar and died a madman. The people you saw on the stage were the very same people who criticized every word I wrote and branded me a populist writer. They were the ones who plotted to kill free thought that can awaken a person's soul. And look at the way they so blatantly praised my writings. I barely used to manage to get 2 meals a day. And my livelihood was a big question mark, which was enhanced by the combined efforts of the so-called literary giants." Shailesh had a point but before the significance of his words sunk into my brain, he continued, "Did you see those people in the auditorium? None of them had come to listen to what I wrote or what I felt, in fact I can bet that most of them hadn't even read my writings. They were there for the free lunch and to use the seminar as an opportunity to get their work done. I wrote to awaken the sleeping soul but alas these selfish people did not allow my writings to speak. And to top it, the sufferings, mental torture and poverty I went through added to my pain and I went mad. You must have been wondering why I was laughing the whole time. It was because at least now some of the people are beginning to take notice but the irony is that it still fails to awaken any soul. And the seminar was not a tribute to me but an insult because the trash they spoke was not what I intended to convey - it is the interpretation of their tiny, little conniving brains. So buddy, wake up. Run while you still can, far away from this noble field. You will die hungry and your writings will be a waste of paper, ink, thought and time. No one cares for what you write and what you think. It would be better if you chose a field where you could at least earn enough money to last your life and help your children in future." I was shocked, such a great writer telling me that my thoughts were not worth anything and that I should run away from my first love "Shailesh, isn't that a defeatist attitude?"

"Well imagine yourself sitting in the auditorium again but this time instead of a tribute to me imagine that it is a tribute to you." Shailesh coolly replied. The haunting visuals came flooding back and I ran for my life. I looked back and saw Shailesh smiling at a distance; I was sure that I had broken the 100 meters. World record. I switched on the light in my bedroom and was still panting for breath. That was when I decided that I did not want to be a writer.

THE END

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