"Seven years since your first and only book was published. Could we expect something coming soon?"
"Not that I know of."
"A lot of critics have already written you off as a one-hit-wonder. What would you say to that?"
"If they were wrong, I could have smirked it all away. It's the hints of a possible truth glaring bluntly at the face, that unsettle me."
"But, you were just getting started!"
"Or maybe, just getting spent of what remained."
"Your book 'A Hundred and One' has transformed a lot of lives out there. It was you who made me fall in love with poetry!"
"We would like to believe our works heal others. But, we don't. We just offer escapades. Getaways from the seething actuality into a make-believe reality, in broad daylight."
"So, realism isn't real? Whatever you have written, none of it is true? Is that what you are saying?"
"What we sell you are half-truths. If we took to writing all of what made up actuality, you wouldn't read us. Even the bravest wouldn't."
"Do you believe what you write?"
"You would have loved to believe so, wouldn't you?"
"So, you are a hypocrite!"
"We all are. It's just that I happen to be a well articulated one, so I am termed an intellectual instead."
"And, why would an intellectual of your stature care to sit here, conversing with an absolute nobody?"
"Time is a terrible bitch. What does a fallen episode from a yesterday have to lose?"
"Do you realise you are a hero for many out there?"
"There are no heroes. There are just demons and lesser demons. The dictates of time have made me a lesser. Success, or the lack of it, is a strange happening. Almost magical. Do you think had I had a couple more books to my name, I would still be sitting here in the middle of a nowhere and be having this conversation?"
As an adolescent stepping into adulthood, I had picked up 'A Hundred and One' as a matter of sheer accident. Hardly did I know, I'd go on to worship the man who penned down the very book. Six years later, meeting the hero in actuality was probably not the best of ideas. Or maybe, not even a worthy one.
When you try finding the human in the hero, the journey scars you in the very process.
Scars last long. Really long. Long enough for a lifetime.
If only nightmares could be forgotten.
"Not that I know of."
"A lot of critics have already written you off as a one-hit-wonder. What would you say to that?"
"If they were wrong, I could have smirked it all away. It's the hints of a possible truth glaring bluntly at the face, that unsettle me."
"But, you were just getting started!"
"Or maybe, just getting spent of what remained."
"Your book 'A Hundred and One' has transformed a lot of lives out there. It was you who made me fall in love with poetry!"
"We would like to believe our works heal others. But, we don't. We just offer escapades. Getaways from the seething actuality into a make-believe reality, in broad daylight."
"So, realism isn't real? Whatever you have written, none of it is true? Is that what you are saying?"
"What we sell you are half-truths. If we took to writing all of what made up actuality, you wouldn't read us. Even the bravest wouldn't."
"Do you believe what you write?"
"You would have loved to believe so, wouldn't you?"
"So, you are a hypocrite!"
"We all are. It's just that I happen to be a well articulated one, so I am termed an intellectual instead."
"And, why would an intellectual of your stature care to sit here, conversing with an absolute nobody?"
"Time is a terrible bitch. What does a fallen episode from a yesterday have to lose?"
"Do you realise you are a hero for many out there?"
"There are no heroes. There are just demons and lesser demons. The dictates of time have made me a lesser. Success, or the lack of it, is a strange happening. Almost magical. Do you think had I had a couple more books to my name, I would still be sitting here in the middle of a nowhere and be having this conversation?"
As an adolescent stepping into adulthood, I had picked up 'A Hundred and One' as a matter of sheer accident. Hardly did I know, I'd go on to worship the man who penned down the very book. Six years later, meeting the hero in actuality was probably not the best of ideas. Or maybe, not even a worthy one.
When you try finding the human in the hero, the journey scars you in the very process.
Scars last long. Really long. Long enough for a lifetime.
If only nightmares could be forgotten.
No comments:
Post a Comment