Reborn
AMIR SALEEM: BORN MARCH 3, 2076
March 3, 2105.
The buzzer went off again and I sprang out of my bed; it was 8:25PM and I was late. I was supposed to be there at 8:45PM. I had to rush.
I commanded the operating system in my room to pick my dress, shoes, cologne, watch, spectacles for the occasion and jumped into the shower. Five minutes and I was ready.
My transport was a an old 2101 model of Bugatti. Sometimes I would think of changing to a newer model, may be a Carius T model, but I always liked the classics. It was a nice smooth cruise to the venue.
The hall was full of audience. Today was the day when I was being awarded Annual Literati Award for best novel of the year.
I received the award and started my speech…
“Ladies and gentlemen! There was a time once when I found it hard even to complete a page of fiction …”
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AMIR SALEEM: BORN MARCH 3, 1976
March 3, 2005.
I woke up at 7:14 in the morning but remained in my bed till it was eight. I kept thinking about something I would do to make this day and the days to come, different. An idea for a novel has stuck in my head long enough but I would still choke on words.
There have been enough lazy days. A writer’s block is no stronger than my will to write. It has to stop now.
I start writing my first short novel.
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AMIR SALEEM: BORN MARCH 3, 1876
March 3, 1905
“Munshi Jee, Munshi Jee!!!” I heard babu jee yelling at Avinash Rai who is my father’s personal and finance secretary, “Why hasn’t today’s newspaper been delivered?” This commotion woke me up and I moved out in the courtyard.
“And here comes the landlord of the house; the Mr. Good for Nothing. Will you ever go to the shop and help me out there?” babu jee yelled at me in the same breath. “Its not going to be a good day” I thought as I walked towards the kitchen. Maan jee was preparing breakfast, the smell of those oily prathas added pain to my hunger. Little Teejo laughed a little laugh and whispered to his sister’s ear, “It starts like this for him everyday” and that was enough to awake me fully.
I wasn’t an immature person; I was a responsible man, married with three kids, and working in a local newspaper as a proofreader but my father didn’t approve of that. “Likhari baney ga ye, Arey bataey koi is ko, pait bharta hei likhney se kabhi? (He wants to be a writer; somebody tell him, writing doesnt feed the hungry)” he would often say to me addressing someone else. No one would really answer to this, because they couldn’t really take sides; I carried the same anger as my father and my grandfather did.
I spent most part of the day outside, visited Aslam’s bookshop and then had a firy chat with Akaash, Govind, Upendra and Karim about Gandhi’s call for boycotting the British goods. For once I supported Akaash and Upendra in favor of the boycott. Govind and Karim left after a while and I took off towards the Haweli.
“Janam din ki shubh kamnaaein Amir babu (Happy birthday Mr. Amir)” I heard Parinita’s soft voice from a half open door behind which she had hid her face. She was the only one who had reminded me of my birthday, “You never forget my birthday Pari” I addressed her with her nick name I gave her when we were kids. “Its the only day when you speak to me Amir babu”, she said with a soft hint of pain in her voice and rushed inside the house. I walked towards my home.
As I entered the Haweli, I saw my wife hurrying into the living room; there was something fishy going on, it was never this silent in our house. I stepped into the living room and found everybody gathered there with a somber look on each face. For a moment I just stood there silent, waiting for someone to speak and rid me of this mystery. And then babu jee stood up and walked towards me.
“Likhari baney ga tu? (You want to be a writer?” he roared, “29 saalon ka ho gya hei tu aaj, ab tau tu likhari ban hi ja (You have turned 29 today, its time you become a writer”, he said with a faint smile appearing on his face as he handed me a pair of expensive fountain pens. Everybody started laughing; there was smell of aloo ke parathey in the air.
An idea for a novel struck.
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Originally written on March 3rd, 2005.
Category: Columns, On Second Thought
