Of Stories and Tales

Of Stories and Tales – Short Story Dream
Photo credit: jeltovski from morguefile.com

‘How does it feel?’

She asked in a monotonous tone. Two large studio lights focussed on my face and the camera started rolling.

How could one feel when his book has been shortlisted for the Man Booker prize? Adding to that, I was nineteen years old, in second year of college and had only one book under my name. Why do reporters even ask such questions?

‘It is good.’ I smiled and said.

I wanted to say I was at the top of this world, I could fly without wings and my mind has been dizzy since I heard it, but I wanted to show that I was calm.

She was reporting for CNN. It had taken hours to fix the set, and I had been given a copy of questionnaire to prepare myself. I had given television interviews before, but these foreigners have different attitude to work. They had even put up make up on my face before starting the interview. My publisher felt that I needed international publicity to increase book sales, and that is why this interview was arranged. I had kept it deliberately in my college canteen, partly to showcase my youth and partly to impress college mates.

I also owed Pandey, the owner of canteen thousand bucks, and he had agreed to waive it off if I made this place famous on an international scene. Our canteen was the most happening place of our college and we spent more hours there than in lecture rooms. It served hardly twenty items, but those were incomparable at prices that none could beat.

My large cut outs were pasted on all the walls and barring the cash counter which Pandey refused to vacate, entire canteen bore my name. Its round tables had been shifted to make some space and a temporary podium had been set up for this interview. Students sat on the other side of the stage and many pretty girls, with whom I had never even interacted, came to witness my interview. Everyone had been promised a treat and by the time it started, there was hardly any space left.

‘When did you decide to write a book?’

I could not have told her the truth. I used to write graffiti on college walls and when I was caught a complaint was sent to my parents. My father gave a sadistic punishment of writing original three hundred pages. Before that I had never even imagined that I could write an engaging paragraph.

‘It was a childhood dream. I was always in the habit of telling short stories and after I joined college, I started working on it.’ I replied.

‘What would you do with Fifty thousand pound prize money?’ I tried to calculate how much it translated in rupees.

Entire audience were looking at me with immense interest. They had started swallowing parathas, cutlets and butter toasts at my expense and Pandey was having great sale without any of the usual nuisance created by us. Even the television set, which ran round the clock, was getting rest today.

‘I would deposit half of that money in bank and live rest of my life on income generated from interest. I am planning to donate the rest to charity.’ I said. No other answer could have given desired publicity.

‘What are your future plans?’

I paused for a moment before answering that. I was distracted by the smell of Masala Maggi and having it was my future aim. My fingers felt the texture of my book which was kept on the table in front. I was specifically instructed to give an impression that my answers were extempore.

‘I believe in going with the flow. As of now I am writing a short story. Even I do not know what I will do after that. A creative person does not make plans; that is best left to the economists.’ I said with a smile on my face.

‘Tell us something about real Ashish.’ The camera turned and took a long shot of canteen. My friends raised a toast with cold coffee, samosas, etc. and Pandey jumped with a placard of my name.

‘I am just another college undergraduate; I like bunking lectures; sit in this canteen and watch beautiful babes, and extract treat from unknown friends. I set stiff targets for myself and relax them every day. I often fail at my expectations and then surprise myself on some days.’ I could have written poetry on that.

‘What would be your advice to the aspiring writers?’ She asked.

This is what success does to you. It qualifies you to guide those who are yet to get its taste. You can advice them to get up at two in the morning, eat asparagus before writing and drink goat’s milk to concentrate.

‘Write regularly, it is a tough job but with perseverance, all improve. One has to keep faith. Keep looking for ideas around you, there are many to be developed. Today I am sitting in this canteen giving an interview and I see a potential story even in that. Stories already exist in this world; they are only needed to be told.’ Even I was impressed by my answer.

For a moment she appeared awe-struck to ask anything else. She wore a diamond ring on her nose, had dark eyelashes and was dressed in a black business suit. I found her seductive in a way. Who knows there was story hidden in this too? A teenage writer falls for a middle aged reporter and destroys his life pursuing her all his age.

‘Do you have a girlfriend?’ She asked with a wink.

‘Is the interview still on or we can proceed on a date?’ I smiled and said. I was never so confident before.

She smiled and opened her mouth to say something but suddenly there was a noise. I looked around and the entire world froze. I felt that someone had thrown water on a hot frying pan. Pandey who was busy keeping the sale records had stopped writing on a page, a student who was going to swallow a cake found it stuck midway and the reporter’s expression was still the same.

The sound continued and I could now make out that it was the noise was of bell…… of course it was college bell, and perhaps mischief of someone who wanted to disturb my interview.

‘Ashish, why are you not turning off the alarm? I hope you slept after completing three hundred pages or your father is going to throw you out of this home. What a shame, you scribble at college walls even at this age.’ My mom screamed.

__END__