Shashank would spend the wee hours of the morning walking along the Howrah bridge, gazing at the
river below.
He would scribble over numerous cups of coffee and intellectual conversations of visitors at the Indian
Coffee House.
In the evenings he would find himself a quiet corner in the vast stretch of maidan.
He always carried a notebook and a pen with him. He was a writer. He had never used a computer. He
felt the true essence of writing can only be captured with a pen and paper.
And when the sun would set he would go back to his dingy little apartment in a cramped lane of
college street. Some of the newspapers had been kind enough to publish his short stories and poems
and that is how he was earning.
He had been going around a lot of publishing houses in and out of Kolkata to get his novels published.
Every time he was sent away. Some said his stories do not have mass appeal. Some said his stories
were not racy enough. Others said they published only established writers.
Many a times he thought to himself if he should start writing porn. At least he will earn a little more
money that way.
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“What do you keep scribbling in that little diary of yours, Shashank?” asked Shashank's mother.
“Nothing, Mother.”
“You better concentrate on your studies. Your grades are going down. Look your father is home, now
go study.”
“What are you doing, Shashank ? Don't you have your exams within a few days? If you don't
concentrate on your studies you will never become an engineer.”
“But I don't want to become an engineer, Father.”
“Then what do you want?”
“I don't know… I haven’t figured it out yet.”
“Well then, probably you won't ever. Now go and study.”
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“Hey! Is that you Shashank?
“Yes but I am sorry I don't recognize you.”
“Of course you don't. How would you when you spent all the three years penning love ballads for
Priya. I am Raj the even manager at college remember?”
“Oh yeah, hello Raj! How have you been?
“I am good …went to Oxford University of London to complete my MBA and now I have come back to
start my own company. What about you?”
“Well, I am a writer.”
“Oh! That’s nice, has any of your books been published?”
“No…but some of my work got published in the local newspaper.”
“Ok then I will take your leave…all the best with your writing. I hope you manage to get your book
published soon.”
That night Shashank kept gazing at the ceiling fan of his small room. Raj's mocking face kept flashing
in his mind.
He tossed and turned but could not sleep. He thought of Priya.
--------------------------------------------------------------
“Shashank, you can't just walk up to my parents and tell them you want to become a writer. They will
never approve of our relationship.”
“Okay I will make up a story but I want to know what you feel about it.”
“What? You got to be kidding me. You can't pursue writing as a career.”
“Why not? You said you love my writings; they have a human touch.”
“But writers earn peanuts; I can't live with that. I am sorry Shashank. I am getting a lot of proposals
from rich families…”
-------------------------------------------------------------
Shashank had been working on a story for quite some time. This time he had done a lot of research.
He had studied the current trends and penned the perfect story which he thought would appeal to the
masses.
He went to Rupa publications but they sent him away.
However it did not deter his spirit and he went to another well known publishing house. But every
time he met failure.
Darkness was engulfing the night and along with it died his spirit.
Disheartened he went back to his house. On his way back, he picked up a couple of porn CDs.
He saw the movies and then he started writing again. This time he wrote porn.
Next day he again set out in search of a publishing house which would be willing to publish his erotic
literature.
Sarita publishing house agreed to publish his story. They offered him an initial amount of Rs 1000 and
50% of the sales profit.
They even offered him a contract of five years for writing erotic novels. He agreed.
A tear trickled down Shashank's cheek. He did not know whether to be happy or sad. He went back to
his house and set all his old manuscripts to fire. He sat down to write his new story.
His tears refusing to leave him.
P.S. This is my second attempt at writing a story. IF you have been brave enough to read it till the end,
please leave behind your honest comments.
P.P.S. This blog has completed a year and even if it still has as few readers as the inhabitants of
Antarctica. It has been a faithful friend and given me the most precious thing in my life :)
