Page 144 - Musings 2021

Then there was a pause — the old man took out a marble from his pocket and handed it to
Rustom. “Whenever you need inspiration, take a look at the marble.”

Rustom examined the marble — the marble was crystal clear, yet Rustom could only see
himself in the reflection — and that too upside down. “What was that supposed to mean?
Inspiration for what?” wondered Rustom.

With this rather odd interaction, the old man went into the room and sat down on the charpoy.
He looked around the room, examining its finer details — with his stick. No windows — just
a door, no furniture — except a charpoy, no lights — just an oil lamp. To this man, everything
was poetic. Even the fact that he couldn't see, yet feel everything.

Rustom brought a kulhad of tea for him, and handing him the kulhad, Rustom asked him,
“Sir, what do you do?” Curiosity had gotten the better of him. Rustom knew he should not
have asked such a personal question without a proper introduction, but the combination of a
Mercedes, a blind old man with a marble, and a chauffeur who didn’t help his own boss
seemed too strange.

The man replied, “I am a writer.” He was apparently hard of hearing as well, because it took
him some time to respond, reasoned Rustom.

“Oh! A writer! You must be quite famous!”

The man nodded in agreement.

“What is your name, son?” said the old man.

“Rrrr... Rustom, sir.”

“How old are you?”

“Sixteen, seventeen years old maybe” - Rustom did not know his date of birth.

“Do you know how to read? Go to school?”

“I used to...” continued Rustom, “... but now I run this stall and in my free time, mostly at
night, by the light of the oil lamp, I try to write some prose or poetry in English…”

The man was fairly surprised. He happened to stop at a tea stall whose teenage owner was
trying to write prose and poetry in a language whose mastery was nearly impossible without
formal education, at least not without a thorough reading of Shakespeare.

“Read something to me,” requested the old man.

Rustom hesitantly proceeded to the corner of the room, picking up an old notebook, which he
had bought in cheap from a scrap dealer. Then he read to the old man, “My thoughts are
nothing, but the arrows in a quiver; and the bow is my pen. These arrows, when shot in the
right direction, can bring joy and happiness; when mis-shot, can inflict as much pain as a real
arrow.”

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