My tryst with Hyde Park!
The brain was just not working. I could play with words, but right now the very same stock of my vocabulary went into hiding, or rather, they were waiting to be robed by themes that would immortalise me and make my work a text for reference for all times to come. No, there was nothing of it as of now, as I sank into the melancholy of the hollow, dark abyss of a borderless blackhole.
The book, a paperback, lying at my feet mocked me. I forgot as to who the sender was, with so much disdain and hatred for me, who had gifted this book to me. I tried flipping its foreword by a famous critic and glanced with distaste at the back cover that contained catchy lines from raving reviews from popular dailies and magazines, certainly all sponsored and paid for. They all sang raucously, the obnoxious noise tearing my eardrums. It was all praise for another work of great art. My mind can withstand modernism in art too; I can stand and appreciate it for hours without realising that some of it hangs upside down!
I loathed the cheap paperback, its author, and the style of description of a book with no plot, no theme, a lack of flow, and rape of language, which was devoid of any essence or emotion. It was more like the dark plague that prevailed in the cobbled streets of Britain, where scores of corpses and horses lay dead side by side. Each page and every word was dead, lacking in beauty, bow-tied snobbishness, and the spirit of the Queen’s language.
Yet these squalid works sold—in millions of copies—and raked in millions for the so-called authors! In this case, the author, an idiot and now a celebrity, is even heard charging hefty fees for responding to any innocuous morning greetings, let alone charging a fortune to address gatherings! No, I am not in the least jealous of his earthly attainments. My intolerance is only over the teenage crap that he dishes out by the dozen and which the youth devour as if these are gospel.
It is time for my walk to Hyde Park, which I do on holidays and to try to explain my story to my imaginary fans. A lone lamppost near the bench where I stand to present my plot is usually the lone unremorseful listener. Today was different! I had a real person as my listener. The old lady was watching me curiously for quite some time; her small chihuahua was a bit restless. No wonder; I had a lesser liking for dogs. What use is there to any creature that cannot love and understand pricey literature?
The lady even smiles at me when I am through the most tragic part of my work, which leaves me wondering if it was indeed a tragedy or if I have been successfully able to convert a melancholic drama into a palatable and enjoyable comedy of errors! The lady was looking at her watch and was preparing to leave. I hurriedly wind up revealing the climax in the last chapter of my book and, with all humility, seek her reaction to the story that I cherishingly narrated with all my heart.
She continues to smile, or is it a smirk? She signals apologetically that she is deaf and cannot hear! Jesus! Will the world ever change? Will the people become more tolerant? When would humanity realise that they were actually face-to-face with a literary genius and gifted with listening to a great work firsthand from the author himself? I calm myself down, trying to recall the many great authors and poets who lived in penury, unknown and uncared for; their eminence was discovered only long after flowers bloomed over their graves.
I have to catch the tube to reach my station and home before it is dark. As I snuggle into my bed in the comfort of my Angora, I let my mind wander to explore a way out of the abyss and find some light and glory in the world of writing. Some publishers who are languishing like me will also be known as a sudden rising sun from the far edge of the ocean! Until then, continue to pray and refrain from spending a dime on substandard materials available at bookstores, should you place your trust in me.
Sampath Kumar
Intrepid voix
