I was there in Wisdom’s Hall. I was dull. You were bright.When I see Jamaica Wilds, I will remember, did you write out of anguish..Dying is easy. There are many ways to do it, fall from cliff,alcohol,avarice,lies,carbon monoxide among so many. Living is painful. But it is good. Your children will, if you have any,praise you for the labour. Your name may not doll up the Hall of Fame. But , I assure you, two drops of love will spill when your hearse is lugging.A flower will fall from somewhere without waiting for your appointment.I liked once your Cockney accent, also the Estuary one, but don’t by all means quote Shakespeare. Dawn may break behind your eyes. I don’t just care. I have forgotten all Dylan Thomas.I had not gone to London. My City is here and now.Gentlemen of seasons come in bow ties, ladies in double-ikats and Patolas and the zari embroidered ones too. Done by that unknown craftsman from Agra, nay Bareilly,nay Chandni Chowk,somewhere from where I bought a second hand coat in winter.When you get an accolade send a flying kiss to his poor children. And remember his old mother coughing hard in T. B. Also his blighted brother pedalling the cycle rickshaw on Mughal king’s roads….The celebrity came in his stiff dress with a book of Neruda, yellow hulled I think.But I didn’t tell you that I had read it two years ago, from my old thatched shed in country. Because I am in the hindmost parts of my novel.And there is some character like you. Your smile is no more a smile, It is an artificial loch of wrinkles. Your words no more resonate. You call me, I don’t answer, forgive my rudeness. I can’t help it. Because you are no more my other self as I conjured once. You said, you are a genius, but friend, you have to prove it by your opus, otherwise you will snuff it of depression or self deception. ..My love is pricey. You won’t get it in ballrooms and banks and shopping malls.Perhaps in snow falls or wheat fields or miles of sand dunes in summer. Friend , you were too hurried to choose. My grandfathers have told it two centuries ago- All that glitters is not gold.Now coming to the point.Nobody has seen the other side of the curtain.The play is going on . The King has occupied his seat, the Queen is yet to present. I don’t talk in metaphysics. But in simple language. There is nothing profound to hear.Nothing such to utter.Barrels of whisky will not make a great man. Only it can corrode your liver walls. The play is still going on.It is free. Take your seat. Not to be seen. But to see.
SW 