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| Ghost Writer On a cool September morning, while the leaves on the neem tree danced to the tune of a southerly wind, Shankar pondered the lines of the song he had just penned. Each word fell in place to an even flow. Closing his eyes, he saw his dream-girl singing of love’s everlasting spring. Life to her, was one long colorful dream. He smiled with satisfaction at having turned out a telling song. He was jolted out of his mid-morning reverie by the shrill ring of the doorbell. Setting the writing pad and pen aside, he got up from the divan with the ease of an athlete, and walked to the door. At five feet, eight inches, and with a complexion reminding one of sun-baked wheat fields, Shankar might not be an instant draw. Yet, his fit and wiry body, dark intense eyes, a firm jaw line and thick black wavy hair attracted more than one glance from people. He smiled in welcome at the middle-aged man standing at the door. “Hello, Mr. Chari. Come in. Have a seat,” he said, cordially. Chari lowered his burly body to the single settee in the room. Shankar sat on one of the two cane chairs facing Chari. The room looked stark. The walls cried for fresh paint. The two small windows needed a change of curtains. “Coffee, sir?” “No, thank you. Is it ready yet Shankar?” asked Mr. Chari in a worried voice. Nodding consent, Shankar handed him a sheet of paper. Chari wiped his glasses clean before he read the neatly written lines. A smug smile played on his face after he finished reading. “Good job, dear boy,” he patted Shankar on his shoulder, folding and keeping the paper in the brief-case he carried. Reaching into his shirt pocket, Chari brought out his wallet, extracted a currency note, and after handing it to Shankar, walked out waving good-bye. No wonder Chari was happy, thought Shankar, looking at the crisp thousand rupee1 note in his hand fluttering in the wind. That song, he just handed over to Chari, was the last of the six songs he wrote for a film produced by a big banner. Each song, he knew, would gross much bigger an amount. Chari, a song-writer himself and a music director as well, turned busier of late, clinching deals with film-producers. Shankar was his lucky find, the proverbial goose that laid golden eggs in the form of a flow of songs fetching him fame and money. Outside, darkness fell. Sighing resignedly, Shankar went in to make a simple dinner, fried rice and vegetable salad. After eating by the kitchen counter, he washed and dried the utensils and the dinner things, put them in the rack as he had watched his mother doing, he went outside for fresh air. The street was empty except for a stray dog or two. He gazed at the star-studded sky with wispy white clouds sailing along. While the world slept around him, Shankar lost himself in an imaginary realm. Crowds were jostling to have a glimpse of the writer, the recipient of that year’s prestigious national award. In a few moments, the announcer’s voice came through. “We are glad to announce that this year’s …..” The slamming of a car door brought Shankar back to reality. He peered into the darkness, and saw Sharma, a portly man in fifties, coming up the short path to his room. “Hello Shankar. How are you my boy?” Greeting him with folded hands, Shankar said, "Namaste."2 sir, I would have come to you, if you had just given me a phone call.” “It’s my need son, and I need it urgently.” “How can I help you sir?” asked Shankar after his guest was seated. “Shankar, the problem is….” Shankar took him inside as he talked of his problem. Sharma looked happy and assured when he left twenty minutes later. That night, Shankar wrote a short-story on the plight of a ten-year-old factory coolie. The issue was about the illegal practice of child labor in India. Sharma wanted it for an all India writers’ guild meeting, scheduled for the next day. As its chairperson, he deemed it fit to present a story of social significance to the audience. Shankar was his short cut to limelight. Shankar clearly remembered the number of writing contests he entered and won with Mr. Sharma’s encouragement. He was his favorite language teacher in college. When he chose literature and creative writing in B.A, Shankar’s dad was disappointed. “Writing is not a practical career-choice my son,” he said. “Often, a writer ends up in poverty and anonymity no matter, which language he writes in. Study commerce instead, and take up a bank job or something similar that promises steady income,” his dad suggested. Shankar remained silent. What do they call it, middle-class attitude? Always look for a safe haven, measuring happiness only in economic security and little else. “I can’t be happy at it dad; I won’t be able to do justice either,” he replied, with characteristic calm. His father pursed his lips in resignation. Shankar finished his masters’ in his favorite subject, Telugu Language and Literature3 with distinction and a gold medal. He could have chosen one of the many teaching jobs that were offered soon after graduation. But, he didn’t want to settle down to the routine of a teacher. That wouldn’t allow him the freedom he needed to free lance, he presumed. Yet, what could he achieve? Where were the laurels he dreamed of? While his friends peaked in their chosen careers, which were lucrative and promising or both, at thirty, he was still struggling to make a mark in his own. Except for a few columns on politics and life style in local newspapers, there wasn’t much to his creative output, which he attributed to pressing obligations. When his father died of a sudden heart attack two years before, all he needed was money, money he scoffed at, to meet various demands looming before him. He was grateful when a friend suggested ghost writing, a favored occupation for impoverished writers. He contacted acquaintances at the university, was ecstatic when he got the chance to write term papers for the students, and study notes and seminar papers for professors. The slow trickle of money started turning into a steady flow. Yet, Shankar wasn’t happy with this line of writing. He needed change and challenge to spark off his latent talent. Relocating to Hyderabad, the state’s capital, on a friend’s suggestion was a vital move that Shankar had made. It made it possible for him to come into contact with people like Chari, who had connections with movie makers. Chari, an experienced lyricist himself realized that Shankar was a rare find. He saw the fire and restlessness struggling to find an outlet in him and was enterprising and quick enough to cash on them. He thought he was doing a favor to himself as well to Shankar. As for Shankar, branching off into song-writing satisfied his aesthetic sense though he was not out of financial straits yet. He knew shadow writing was not the most ethical of choices. However, there weren’t any options either. -------------------------------------------- The film that he wrote songs for, became a blockbuster. Its songs were instantly popular. People loved those romantic songs. Fresh and modern in style, the lyrics took the audience to a land of beauty, where love reigned supreme. They were heard again and again on video, audio and radio. FM stations did great business over them. At the end of the year, Chari was awarded the Golden Peacock, the best lyricist award for the year by the South Indian film guild. Shankar felt the flames of growing anger followed by fits of frustration. How long could he remain a beggar that cannot choose? Shankar returned to his native place for a break. A month later, while he was trying to catch his depression in a poem, his phone rang. “Hello Shankar, how about dinner at the Taj tonight?” Chari’s voice crackled through the phone. He said he too would come to this seaside town for a holiday and rest. “Are you celebrating something Mr. Chari?” “Patience young man, expect you by eight,” Chari chuckled. Shankar looked at the mouth piece, a bit puzzled. ------------------------------------ The bus slid to stop before the Taj, a five star hotel rising colorfully against the dark sky. Shankar stepped into the brightly lit marble-floored vestibule. “There you are! I was just about giving up on you,” said Chari, rising from a plush sofa in the lounge. Laying a friendly arm around Shankar’s shoulders, Chari walked him to the “Dimple,” a restaurant that offered variety Indian cuisine. “Well Shankar, you know what a huge success the film has been. The producers want us again. The good news is, this time round they want not just songs, but the story and screenplay as well. I know you can excel in all,” Chari smiled knowingly, as the waiter cleared their table after their course of Biryani4with a combo of mixed vegetable curry and coconut chutney5After paying the bill, they went to the lounge and took the settee by a window with a view to the Bay of Bengal. A few ships in the anchorage could be spotted with their shining yellow lights. The night was young and the beach was busy with people enjoying the sound and sight of the ocean by night. “Rest assured you will be paid handsomely,” continued Chari sipping tea while munching on a piece of plum cake. He knew of Shankar’s financial burdens. He mentioned a sum that would take care of his sister’s marriage, and the fees for his younger brother’s medical education. The evening progressed while they chatted of politics and films. All the time, thoughts about Chari’s offer stayed put on Shankar’s mind. “I can wait for a couple days for you to decide,” said Chari before they parted at the exit door. ---------------------- Shankar tossed and turned in his bed, unable to make a decision over Chari’s offer. Am I sinking into deeper mire? How do I get out of this muddle of torturous anonymity? He slipped into a fitful sleep, sometime after midnight. He got up at the first light, pulled on his tracksuit, and stepping out into the semi darkness, started jogging towards the seashore. He took a deep breath of the fresh morning air and looked in awe as the sun started rising in the east behind the grey mountain range. The sky was crisscrossed in an awesome mix of pale pink, gold and orange. The sea breeze felt cool on his skin, bringing solace to his tired brain. The shore looked like a jagged white line of foam. The sea was calm and translucent. The distant mountains hid in a haze of smog. A few people jogged or walked on the beach. Shankar tucked his hands in trouser pockets, walked on the shore for a while and then turned back to return to his room. “Shankar! Is that you really? Not an apparition I hope.” He couldn’t believe his eyes as a slim, fair girl neared. His heart beat faster as her limpid dark eyes focused on him. The soft glow of her skin, dimples on velvety cheeks and dark hair tumbling in shiny waves down her supple back set his adrenaline on a rapid flow. Wasn’t he affected similarly during their college years? Avni was his first love and he never met anyone else with equal magnetism ever since they parted ways. A silent admirer, he remained. And if she was aware his feelings, she never acknowledged them. “Avni, what are you doing here?” asked Shankar, taken by total surprise.. She did have other things on her mind during those days as she later clarified. Drinking coffee at one of the beach cafes, Shankar and Avni talked of their past and their present. She recounted how eager she was to complete her education and start earning after her father had succumbed to the malignant brain tumor he didn’t know he had. The huge debts he owed to the bank, for which he worked, drove her on to concentrate on getting a good job. She had little time for love. “I am a web designer and a software programmer with the Infosys6. My mom and I live in one of those apartments,” Avni pointed to the line of attractive apartment buildings, off the beach. “I was lucky to have cleared dad’s loans thanks to the salary I earn. I feel free and happy as of now,” She said. Shankar smiled, letting the companionable silence ride on. After listening to Shankar’s writing crisis, Avni said “why don’t you go public via the internet? All you have to do is to choose some creative websites and submit your songs and stories.” Shankar felt a rush of renewed hope and excitement. How could he not think of it earlier? They made a date to meet on a Sunday at her place. Shankar felt the cloud of depression he earlier felt lifting off. -------------------------------------- Two days later Chari called Shankar. “So what is it to be my boy?” Shankar accepted the offer. Money did matter for the time being at least, he surmised. He started working on the story, script and songs, full time. The story was about a college guy who never believed in love. Yet, he called himself the “greatest lover” based on a string of relationships. Shankar had to script a radical change in him that would make him see that love was not about flings or a few days of glorified closeness between the lovers. Indian audiences favored songs to punctuate the events in the movie. Shankar did not find it difficult to insert song sequences in the script, as the story progressed. ---------------------------------------- “Say, Shankar, in which century B.C. have you been living? I can’t believe you do not know of these facts of computer,” Avni’s voice registered disbelief. Steaming cups of coffee sat at their elbows. They were surfing through a number of creative writing sites on her desktop. Sunday morning was calm and there was an air of serenity in the neighborhood. As Avni concentrated on searching the web, Shankar silently admired her fresh beauty. “I write in Telugu,” he said rather crestfallen. “Sure. Look here, this is what you need,” she said sounding pleased as a page with a caption “Quill pad” appeared on the monitor. Incredible as it looked, Shankar picked up the skill of writing on it and saw that as he wrote Telugu in English letters, it printed into Telugu. Shankar was thrilled at this unexpected shower of computer blessings. He turned Avni into his arms and kissed her lips. She flushed with shock and joy of tasting her first kiss from Shankar whom she loved from the very first day they’d met back in college. ----------------------------------------- Days rolled into months. Chari was ringing at regular intervals to remind Shankar of his deadline for handing over the script. Shankar completed the story, screenplay and the songs, as promised to Chari. The young man in his story realized that true love was possible only with sacrifice. A number of scenes and sequences meshed meaningfully to highlight Shankar’s conclusion on what exactly love was and how difficult it was to understand its pattern. Once he was satisfied with his work, Shankar went to Chari’s house to hand over the script. He was surprised to find the house silent. It was so unlike the way it usually was with a lot of bustle and noise due to a steady stream of visitors. He pressed the bell and waited. Chari’s wife Meena greeted him with a warm smile and invited him in. After giving him coffee, Meena told him of Chari’s sudden illness. He had malarial typhoid after a trip to the hill station, where the next sequence of the movie was being shot. The physician treating him assured her of his early recovery. She took him to Chari’s bedroom. Shankar felt a wave of sympathy as he noticed the Chari lying on the bed, feverish and weak. Chari opened his eyes with difficulty and smiled rather vaguely at Shankar. “Have you brought the script my boy?” he rasped. “Yes, Mr. Chari, I got everything you asked for with me. I am sorry to find you sick...” Shankar brought out a large envelop and put it on the side table. Chari smiled gratefully at Shankar. “I’ll give you a call as soon as I get better,” Chari mumbled, turning to the other side. ----------------------------------- After that visit to Chari’s house, Shankar’s life had changed at mercurial speed. The change he craved for was quick and dynamic. In the next couple of months Shankar had become a sought after author, not just on the web but among the popular literary and commercial magazines as well, thanks to Avni who’d sent some of his stories and songs to them. His creative urge found the right channel with its flood gates open to the world at large. His books of poems and collection of short stories came to light at last. Publishers from various parts of the country vied for his writings. His stories of cultural and social significance were critically acclaimed and drew the attention of movie makers. Gone were his days of frustration and disappointment, and gone were the days of ghost-writing. Shankar knew that the movie he worked for was released and that it received critical acclaim. He didn't bother much about it. ------------------------ On one morning, Shankar got a call from Chari’s wife, Meena. “How are you Shankar? My husband and I warmly invite you to the success meet combined with meet-the–press event of the film, “Shades of Love,” you scripted. I am sure you know that the movie was a great hit.” “Oh, thank you Ma’am. I will be happy to attend it.” “Thank you. Do come early so we can chat a bit before the event starts.” Shankar could imagine her smile as she talked. ------------------------------------ Shankar took Avni with him to attend the event held at the function hall of the hotel Taj. They were received by the assistant director of the film “Shades of Love.”Chari’s wife seated in the front row spotted them and came over to say hello. She found them seats in the second row and sat with them talking. Guests started pouring in. Shankar and Avni heard their positive comments on the film. Shankar reminisced on the way he pondered the subject of this movie. His own experience of love and its manner of testing his patience provided impetus to write the screenplay with dedication. He loved to create those scenes bringing about realization of true love in the central character. He turned out a very fulfilling screenplay. No matter who received the award, no one can take away my sense of contentment, he told himself. Reporters from various newspapers and magazines sat in the space reserved for them. The chief guest was the president of the film makers’ association. After garlanding the makers of “Shades of Love,” the he spoke of the significance and relevance of the film. He admired the way social values were shown in the movie. He particularly, emphasized the excellent story and screenplay and congratulated Mr. Chari for being a fine writer. Chari, who was seated among the dignitaries on the dais, looked at Shankar in the audience, and smiled at him. Shankar smiled back. After the speeches of the producer and the director of the film, Mr. Chari was called by the master of ceremonies to say few words. Chari took the mike and talked of the need to drill values in the young generation of the changing India. Values were always there. But they should be properly inculcated among the youth, he affirmed. Before concluding his address Chari said, “Dear friends, I have a confession to make. The story, screenplay and the songs of this successful film were penned by an extremely talented young man. He was good enough to stay silent although he is now an acknowledged and famous writer. I can no longer claim the fame he deserves. Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome Mr. Shankar.” An exclamation of surprise and jubilation went up from the crowd. Shankar remained stunned in his place as the crowd began to look for him in the audience. Chari's voice was heard again. “Come on, Shankar, it’s your time now. You or I cannot stop the sun from shining by screening him with a hand. I pay the price of not letting you come out of the shadow, by publicly apologizing to you and to the audience. I am truly sorry for your years of being my ghost writer.” The press and the TV staff were seen busily recording the event. When Shankar went on to the dais to receive the rightful honor, there was standing ovation from the crowd. The celebratory mood was so infectious that the crowd started singing the theme song of the film in unison. It was another unexpected milestone and a red-letter day in Shankar’s life. ------------------------ A month later, on a cool October evening, Shankar and Avni’s families met at Avni’s apartment for their engagement. They celebrated it with a few family friends and relatives. “Now you can exchange greetings and wedding invitations,” said the priest who just conducted the traditional engagement ceremony. Shankar’s sister and brother-in-law handed over the plate of fruits and sweets to Avni’s aunt and uncle saying, “We are happy to have your daughter as our son’s wife and let’s all share the joy of their marriage to be held on the ninth of November.” Similarly Avni’s people handed them the plate of gifts expressing their pleasure to have Shankar as Avni’s husband on the fixed day. A sumptuous dinner followed the event. After a moonlit walk on the beach the engaged couple returned to her apartment before Shankar left with his family for his flat, a few blocks away. He noticed a car parked in the drive way. Avni’s mom met them in the hallway. “There you are Shankar. This is Mr. Madhavan. He has been waiting for you for a while," she said. A slim young man rose from the sofa and greeted Shankar. “Hello Sir, I am Madhavan. I am here representing the Sahitya Academy7. Hearty Congratulations Mr. Shankar! Your book of poems “The Journey” has won this year’s Sahitya Academy’s best Poet Award. The Academy, cordially invites you to receive the Honor from the Governor on the tenth of next month.” Some dreams have a way of coming true. Shankar’s was one such. Word Count:3788 Written for Kittiara's Writing Contest Theme:Celebrations. Footnotes |
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