Contradiction

Sirish held the book that had been lying there for more than a week, lying on his dusty table one of which leg was broken and was supported with bricks. When he held the book in his hand, the ashes of cigarette fell to his foot. He didn’t remember who had brought the book in his small shack. He had not read anything for a long time but he didn’t like the smell of the book and dropped it as if he had caught something filthy and abominable. He realized what he had done just now and smiled, it was a smile of self contempt because he had realized he had been in the same trousers for more than a week, his shirt stink. His smile said the book was far better than his body, its smell was a fragrance before the odor of his body.
He had been an unsuccessful writer, then a successful writer, then a lost writer and finally the discovered writer. He had been introvert since he can remember himself. He does not remember having any friends since thirty years, now he was thirty eight years of age. He had a friend in his primary school and Gaurav was his name. He was really very fond of Gaurav. Once when he was eight he woke up scared and shivering. He had a nightmare. He saw two tall men with long white hair clad in long white gown. Their face was expressionless but scary. They were dragging a child by his arm and the child was crying, get him out of the men’s hold. Sirish couldn’t identify who the child was but he knew he knows the child. They were now very far and the child turned to Sirish, his tears had dried in his face but it was very bright face. It was Gaurav. Sirish woke up scared. Next day Gaurav didn’t come to school, the other day the school was closed because Gaurav had died the day before. He had died in his bed and no one knew what had happened to him. Since then Sirish has no friends. Even after thirty years he remembers the dream clearly, he still fears it. He can see that bright face with tears dried on the cheek.
He loved writing, he had been writing for a long time. He didn’t know in his writings he talked to Gaurav, his only friend who was still alive in his thoughts in his sub-conscious. The dream and the event that followed had brought permanent changes in his life. He grew up without any interest, without affection for anyone and indifferent to everything. He had a brother who was two years older than himself and who was too good in everything. He spent all his childhood scribbling things and tearing them fearing someone will read them. He loved reading, books brought before him the world he wanted to see but he feared. He grew up writing stories that always had tragic end, that spoke of loneliness, of vagaries of life, of sadness etc. His parents thought he had no future and were really worried. Once his parents thought about talking to him seriously about his intentions, his objectives and opinions, obviously he won’t speak. He was sixteen then. His father got irritated and yelled ‘you will be able to do nothing, always be a burden, you are sickeningly hopeless’. The next day he left his home without saying a word to anyone.
He wandered around the heartless city of Kathmandu hungry and tired. He worked in a small tavern as a call boy. The owner was a strongly built man and a gay. One day the owner tried to seduce him and he ran away. He worked as a newspaper boy, running with newspaper. Once he showed his stories to the man from whom he bought his newspaper. The man liked it and said he would talk with the publishers if his stories could be posted. His story was published next week and since then he has been writing stories, articles, poems for different papers. Whatever he got was enough to pay for his food, rent, ink and papers after all he never wanted to live a lavish life. He never made any opinion about lavishness, it simply didn’t exist for him. He hated writing in newspapers, magazines, he hated his readers if they ever existed but he had to live.
At the age of twenty-six he thought he had a story that could be converted into a novel. The plot could not be a story, it had to be a novel as there were so many incidents and required so much detail. It took him two years to complete his three-hundred and fifty eight paged novel. When he ended it, he had a feeling of triumph, he didn’t know what had he earned but he knew it was the most wonderful day of his life. He had fallen in love with what he had written, he had fallen in love with the character. It was a story of a revolutionary, who believed in what he fought, for whom he fought. He believed whatever his mentor was doing was for the global cause for the entire man kind unless he discovers how his mentor had misguided him to rise to power. He thought he had presented his character better than anyone had did in the books he had read. He thought it was his revolution. He wanted to show it to the world, for the first time he wanted to get atop a hill and yell at the world about his triumph. He took the manuscript to a publisher who he knew for a long time now and who seemed to have appreciation for his work.
Everyday he would plan how he would make his meeting with the publisher an accident and where should he find him. For over a month he met the publisher more than fifteen times yearning to hear something from him. He always had this stern look and cold smile in his face. He was let down. He had given up hopes. One evening he was sitting on his bed watching a spider knitting its web when a young boy came telling him the publisher wanted to see him. His work was published. 500 copies were printed. A year later they said the book couldn’t be popular. A newspaper had a rave review saying the author was naïve and the plot was too weak. His hatred to the world against the people only grew up. He sought support in alcohol.
Three years after the book was published, it had only sold 200 copies. Four years back, an interview came in a newspaper. The title was hearty tete-a-tete with the national litterateur Mr…. One of the questions asked ‘what do you do in your spare time?’, his reply was ‘I prefer reading books among other things’.
‘What are you reading these days?’
‘Diary of a Professor’
‘Can you name few books you have really appreciated?’
The answer to that question changed Sirish life. The national litterateur mentioned Sirish’s book as one of his favorite. Next week the publisher printed thousand more copies which was sold within three days. The newspaper carried reviews according to which the book was the jewel in contemporary literature; it was simple yet very touching. People wanted to meet him. Press wanted interview, they wanted to know about his background, his source of inspiration. He ran from one place to another before slipping into Indian border. He stayed there for two years, his books were creating waves. It was already awarded few prizes and had become a best seller. They now had the book in university syllabus. He was again a waiter in an Indian hotel, cleaning dishes, scrubbing floor. They found him few months later after his picture was published in a magazine.
Corporate people who produced films came to see him when he refused to see them in posh hotels and restaurants. He was back in Kathmandu in his shack. He didn’t want to write, he had forgotten to hold a pen. Alcohol had weaken him. No-one gave filthy job to a celebrity writer and he was fighting with hunger. Corporate people were pressing him to give them the copyright. They wanted to bring some changes, fit a woman in the character’s life, add some love making scenes. He knew his character will die if film was made the way they wanted it. The novel was the only earning of his life, only thing that made him feel like a human not a filthy insect. He couldn’t see his work being raped but hunger bit him hard and he succumbed. The day he signed the agreement he lost sleep, the dream he had seen at the age of eight was back if he closed his eyes. They gave him less than half of the money they had agreed to pay. He didn’t care, he thought whatever he had could keep him alive for two years and he didn’t expect to live after that. The dreams haunted him again and again but the child didn’t turn his face toward him the way he had done thirty years back. The film released. The character he had portrayed as strong, confident was converted into a chocolate looking young man, who sang songs with his lover. The lover didn’t exist in the novel. He felt his stomach shrink when he saw the hero giggling with his friends, talking about girls, making love. He didn’t watch the complete movie. After a long struggle he fell asleep, there was the same dream. There were fringes in his face, he was scared. This time the boy turned his face, it was the face of eight year’s Sirish. He woke up shivering, drank a glass of water. He feared to go back to sleep but he hated to remember the film. A week later the neighbors complained foul smell coming from his shack, they broke in and the dangling body of Sirish greeted them. It was pale, the eyes protruded and his tongue drooped.