I sat
under a dim light, far end of the room, alone, sipping wine.
It was
the most obscure area I could find. The rest of the room was bright with long
satin curtains flowing freely from high ceiling to the floor. Large crystal
chandeliers glittered brightly, reflecting light whenever a photographer
clicked a candid shot. Waiters moved
around the room with trays containing exotic finger food, kebabs on bamboo
sticks, cheese flavored spring rolls, mushrooms coated in pepper sauce.
Drumming my
fingers, knees quivering, I waited for people to notice me, anxious for
somebody to come and greet me, although I knew nobody would look at dark
corners of the room. I gulped. It takes real skill to choke on air and still
remain calm. At regular intervals, I scanned through my Watsapp messages to
swallow few moments of entertainment. Inspiration quotes at regular intervals
boosted my ego. I was grateful that not many friends in my watsapp group knew
that I was a loser. To my friends, I was a jovial, multi-talented, a superman.
But I
knew the truth. A social outcast in my writer’s group, that’s what I am.
Imagine not being able to churn out hundred words story in seconds! That is a
disgrace. How did my writer friends excel? I pondered.
Far
corner, on the left I could see Vijay, a successful writer, whose name has
appeared in the nomination list. With
his salt and pepper beard, shiny scalp and a thin poly-tail, he looked pathetic.
The long kurta with mismatched cotton bag slung crosswise across his chest
confirms the fact that he had no sense of dressing at all, yet the characters
in his book are well-dress people with designer labels. Rich, successful people
who know all the right words to impress the crowd. Men wear rayon suits with
striped classy ties, pointed shoes and have their hair in place with shiny gel.
The women in his books are stylish too, manicured nails, chiffon saris, most of
the ladies in his books have red bindi on their forehead during the social
events. Who puts bindi on their forehead nowadays? Not even the ladies in the
villages, they don’t even wear saris at home, just long printed gowns with
abstract designs. His stories are so very unrealistic! I am surprised how his
book is nominated. Oh God! He is wearing Kolapuri chappal to the ceremony, one
strap is coming loose, and what if he wins the award?
I wish
somebody would notice me. A facebook friend or a twitter follower, anybody will
do. Seems like I am not so famous, although I regularly post my pictures on
Instagram. I have thousands of virtual friends, three thousand and twenty-two
on Facebook to be exact and ten thousand more on twitter. I do read books, one
book per day. Two hundred pages in one go, I am fast that way, maybe they
should have chosen me as jury member, I could have helped them select the right
books for booker’s prize.
But no,
no luck that way
Mona,
Sunita, John, Anil, Chandrashekhar, Madhuri, these are the members of jury. Now
they sit on that reserved VIP table in the center of the room. I bet they must
be discussing their experiences in selecting the book for the award and how
difficult it was for them to decide the winner. Each of them look upon
themselves as wisest of all, and that misconception completely tarnishes their
knowledge. How do they decide? Do they really read all the books that arrive at
their home, free of charge? Or do they go hopping blogs to read reviews thus
narrowing down the creditability of a book on public demand? Whatever it is,
they have one advantage, their personal library increases three-fold mainly
stocked with free bees.
Frankly
speaking, I believe that you cannot judge a book by its cover; it is difficult.
One has to have a deep knowledge of the idea that is discussed in the book, he
should be able to relate to it, identify with it. What does Mona know about
love? Single, detached workaholic, I have never seen her with a man. She is on
the jury for judging books on romantic love. Can she differentiate between
lust, romantic love and deep attachment with the partners? Does she know that
the person you fall in love with is somebody who fits within your ‘love map’,
an unconscious list of traits that you build in childhood as you grow up? There
are many love stories interconnected in my books, a lust turning to romantic
love, the love bound tightly with strings of attachment, of commitments, of
compromises, the emotions like the jealousy, the greed, the attachments leading
to the lust, would she understand that? Reading
volumes and volumes of book can only increase your general knowledge. Most of
my stories must have escaped her range of imagination.
And then,
there is Sunita on that same table, an aesthetic traditionalist. I understand
she means well but she advocates for artistic realism as if she understands art
as well as my Rex poodle (no offense to my canine friend, whose taste is
actually pretty good for a dog). Every writer cannot write a memoir or stories
from their personal experiences, some books are written on fantasy and wild
imaginations. That is an art. Realism does not always mean reality. Real art is
to see through oppression and find a real picture.
I am not
surprised that jury failed to nominate me for the booker’s prize. The readers
of my book get frustrated with my dialectical style. I seem to contradict
myself, they say. Actually, now that that I m thinking, I do that on purpose. I
love to confuse people. They must understand that life is bundle of
contradictions. I am seeking the truth looking from all viewpoints and
assessing them against each other to find the real meaning. I can be cruel, I
could be kind, I could be unrealistic too, sometimes I will bend towards
‘identical thinking’ and other times I contradict and criticize. It all depends
on situation and the path my story takes.
Lonely is
the world writers live in. I could ramble on and on about the injustice meted
out to me. I know I deserve worldwide fame. But if my writing does not appeal
to this small bunch of jury members, I may continue to be unattractive,
invisible, just a moth on the wall.
