Tale of a writer

It was not late in a day; Mr. Kusumakar Sapre, deputy collector, made a last-ditch effort and wrote a tale for story-telling competition at Residency club. He completed it with his twenty three years old fountain pen which was on its last legs. It was witching hour and only a quaint and pale reading lamp was making a sphere of greenish sallow light. High and lumber ceiling of bungalow was casting shadows and he felt cold in his lined half-pants and vest.

Kusumakar was thirty three years old, fat and bald man, who wore thick glasses in black, wide frames and a scarf, usually silk, on his neck and tweed trousers and hefty boxers with coat and half-sleeves sweater in winter and cotton shirt with half sleeves V-neck vest in summer and spring and at all times maroon socks. He had little belly, rotund and content and gave him character and fullness.

He slept under his mosquito-net and patchwork quilt.
In morning, he shaved, used hair cream with lemon odour and left for his office after eating breakfast consisting two omelettes with onion and coriander dressing and pomegranate juice with honey.

His office was the Raj construction and in calamitous condition like other governmental structures in India. Roof made with terracotta blocks used to trickle and walls were feeble. Furniture was going to pieces bit by bit and had been reinstating with the same. Only floorboards made with black and white marbles were in good condition. Outside there was a grass court pallid because of water scarcity and gardener’s indolence. Backside was full of feral flora, ammonia stink of human urine and claret blots of saliva of pawn-eaters.

Mr. Sapre was rather pompous in his official mechanism. His administration was quite conservative and sternly hierarchical. He was honest unlike other governmental officers of gazetted rank but easily bullied by political pressures. Businessmen, civil construction contractors and quacks were petrified of his post because being a deputy collectors he was in charge of mentioned people’s motions and immune to subornments.

At five thirty in evening, he stood up and left office for residency club.
Officers’ ladies club meeting was going on. officers were in billiards hall and reading lounge. Mrs. Sadhana Sharma, wife of district magistrate, an old-aged woman with agreeable features and plump, was sitting on a wooden chair painted in green and upholstered in red frayed velvet reading submissions for story-telling competition. She was one of the judges in the panel of three judges consisting of a respectable writer of town, poetess wife of district judge and herself.

Mr. Sapre submitted his story to her after it being properly sealed at reception counter. He was tickling pink and sat beside her. Mrs. Sharma was an intellectual, and a muse to Mr. Sapre. He always wanted to write a poem on her. On her salt and pepper locks tied in a slapdash fashion either in bun or braid with almost always in turquoise ribbon and her bohemian beads, she used to wear around her collars.

‘Weather is quite pleasant today.’ He said.
‘Namahste, Mr. Sapre, I’m sorry I’ve not noticed you. Weather is quite good today but you’re a young man Sapre, you need not to worry about weather. Old people like us should be bothered with weather.’
Mrs. Sharma was not a much enthusiast of cliché conversation.
‘But Mrs. Sharma there are some advantage too of old age.’ He said in philosophical shrug; his quite typical and dull gesture.
‘Ha not much but I’ve always been bad in finding advantages in anything. I was a communist in my young days.’
‘We all are communist in young age. It’s like being young.’
‘Amour, communism, poetry are sign of being young. Even now I feel all three.’ She laughed affectionately.
He also cackled.
‘Oh so you’re communist; that means squabbles with sir at home over administration issues.’ He said and again laughed but feebly.
‘But I feel amour too.’
She said and stood up to greet one of her lady friend.

Mr. Sapre went to the billiards room and sat there reading Times for half an hour over rum and chocolates muffins. He was reflecting on his narrative which was more of a fable but a splendid bit of his writing. He envisaged himself on stage accepting prize for the best story.

Mrs. Sharma, Respectable writer of the town and poetess wife of district judge were sitting and conversing over tales submitted. Respectable writer was stout man with voracious lips and covetous and twitchy eyes predominantly fluttering over ladies’ cleavages and shoulders. Poetess was a lady in her thirties, only bones and skin, unsightly and an idiot like all those people who don’t know any language entirely. Her curls were dyed in charcoal black and eyebrows were auburn in tint which gave an impression of their absence. She spoke in shrill voice about the aesthetic beauty of a story written by son of her yoga partner.

‘It lacks any kind of beauty Mrs. Agrawal.’
Respectable writer of town said and stared at her midriff imprecisely. She is fairly slender at her naval. He thought. He was not concerned with tales told by neophytes and judgement of two greenhorn ladies. He was a male chauvinist pig. Poetess was too quite misogynist for she hated every other woman and Mrs. Sharma was a feminist. Respectable writer of town tried to browbeat ladies into acknowledging a very weak tale named Spin the yarns’ as paramount written by her mistress. Mrs. Sharma plainly demurred it. Respectable writer of town sat for some times with these ladies and then retired to bar for his daily dose of gin.

Mrs. Sharma asked waiter in white jodhpurs for respectable writer of town. Waiter returned and told her that respectable writer is not sober enough to come and converse with ladies and he thinks that this task should not be given much impulsion as it is not Noble Prize they are deciding and he does not care whether his mistress be given prize or not and said that he thinks he is far better a judge of human beings than stories.

Mrs. Sharma stiffened her nose in a fashion royalty sometimes does and poetess also tried to imitate her gesture and succeeded to an extent. She twisted her nose too in a way clerks do.
‘Mrs. Aggrawal, now we have to take decision about the best story. Have to read all of them.’
‘oh, I have read all the stories and none of the work is enough poetic for my taste except the story written by Mr. Saluja named Poetic judgement ‘
‘oh, I also liked that story very much but isn’t it written very badly. I mean its structure is loose and style is too pompous.
‘lets not think much Mrs. Sharma.’
‘Mr. Sapre has also submitted a beautiful fable.’
‘I have not read it.’
‘I suggest you to read it as soon as possible as I’m thinking to award best story prize to it.’
Poetess was in doldrums and said, ‘ oh yeah, it’s quite a fine story. We should declare our decision.’
‘Don’t you want to read it Mrs Agrawal?’
‘oh, Mr. Sapre told me about his tale and I found it quite amusing.’

At last Mr. Sapre was given a trophy for best tale written. He read it on stage in tweed pantaloons and military print jacket in olive green hue.

In reality he plagiarised Ivan Andreyevich krylov’s tale and triumphed accolades from judges and members of club. They served ceremonial feast on that night.
Butter chicken and Biryanee were in menu. Everybody enjoyed sumptuous supper with sweet corn soup and three desert with cappuccino at last. Weather was nippy. Everyone was on either on gin, rum or whisky. Mr. Sapre found himself physically very striking that day as he found ladies were staring at him.

At one in night, he felt an urge to read his story again. He read a paragraph and search for original tale written by Ivan Andreyevich krylov as he preferred original more.