Monday, October 26, 2009


My well wisher insisted that I should seriously consider writing as a vocation, since, according to him, I had considerable talent in the literary department and unlike many subscribed to the British English Fan Club and had a distinctive style of articulation. In short, he believed that I was one of those latent talents who would take the world by storm once the floodgate of my literary deluge is unleashed. Soon, I was convinced that I was empowered with such prowess about which even I myself did not have sufficient inkling and that credit went to his discerning acumen to uncover the prolific writer hidden in the mundane mails that I exchanged with him.

If only discerning could stop him, the matter would have died a natural death. But my well wisher galloped ahead in proving to me and himself that a J.K. Rowling was in the making and made it his prime concern to remind me everyday that the world was waiting with bated breath to witness my creative genius. When I protested and procrastinated on the pretext of time constraint, he was quick to advise me that such matters could not be postponed to post retirement leisure and that I should immediately take pen to paper and at least sketch out the “First Chapter” of my self-indulged literary assignment for his critical evaluation. Day after day he sent me mail after mail to that effect. He called it instigation; I doubted whether creativity could flourish under coercion as instigation though subtle in its implication was nevertheless an instrument suggestive of compelling circumstance. However, he was so diligent in his enterprise that soon I started feeling guilty of not complying with his wish. But somewhere, in my heart of heart I knew if I now inked the paper it would not be to give expression to myself and my creativity but to impress him and somehow prove to him that he was right.

That is why, one fine morning, I requested him not to send me anymore bugging mails as I thought I knew the measure of my literary worth and caliber and therefore could not hide behind somebody else’s dreams. Though, on hindsight, I feel I have been very abrupt even rude in my attempt to put a stop to this otherwise fruitless exercise and in the process have ruthlessly snubbed a friend’s selfless enthue directed at my own good, which is nothing less than criminal. Though he refrained from arguing on the subject and acquiesced in a quiet manner, I could make out that he was hurt and very, very disappointed. So was I. Disappointed to have disappointed a friend who unconditionally extended unadulterated encouragement, which is a rare deed and a rare gift, indeed. Disappointed because I could not live up to him; to his expectations. But ink should speak the truth and so have I.

And one day, my friend, perhaps I will live up to your dreams and word a tale left untold for now………………..

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