Page 145 - Musings 2021

“Good, good, not bad,” remarked the old man. “But you can get much better at writing. I can
teach you. I live in the city, and you can come with me. I will pay you and teach you as well.
You can be great at this.”

Rustom was surprised. Perhaps the old man was a con-man. Perhaps he was genuinely a
well-known writer and was just surprised at Rustom’s passion towards his craft — his hobby
— despite his humble upbringing.

Rustom decided to take a chance. He shut his stall for a couple of weeks. He guided the old
man to his car, and off they went. The old man had a bungalow in the city, and a spare room
was prepared for Rustom’s stay. Rustom could not help but wonder about the luxurious life
this old man lived — but at the same time he could not see, and no amount of wealth can get
the sense of sight back. Rustom pitied the irony of the situation.

There were all sorts of newspapers, magazines and journals. Probably somebody reads them
to him, thought Rustom, just as the old man arrived.

He sat down on a chair, a fine, polished, teak chair. He gestured to Rustom to sit down on the
opposite chair. Rustom felt as if the old man knew exactly where everything was. When you
take away one of the senses, the others get strong. Take away two, the remaining ones get
stronger.

“To write well, you must practise. You need words to express your feelings. To build up your
vocabulary, read good articles, newspapers — make it a habit …”

Rustom listened carefully. For some strange reason, it seemed to appeal to him, whatever this
old man was saying. It was almost as if he felt a connection, a connection from some other
life, to this old man.

Everyday Rustom would try to read more and more. This was hunger — the sort of hunger
that does not go away, but only gets stronger.

Every day he would try to write something. Often he could not find words for his feelings —
though he felt they existed, he just didn’t know them. He talked to the old man about his
feelings — he often found the words he was looking for, in the wealth of vocabulary that the
old man possessed.

“Every story has a beginning, a middle, and an end. It is a straight line, just like time — in a
poetic sense, get it? In the beginning, you introduce the characters, the setting, and initial plot
line; in the middle you get the main story going; and in the end you tie up the loose ends. Of
course, it is not as simple as it sounds, and it comes through practice. So practise, practise my
boy!”

Over the course of a couple of weeks, the old man had developed a sort of fatherly affection
for Rustom. He liked the young boy, perhaps because he saw some part of himself in him.
Rustom, on the other hand, had a similar affection for the old man. He had felt a connection
the very first day they had met, and now the feelings had only gotten stronger.

Rustom wrote a beautiful piece of prose over the period of his stay. He read it to the old man.
The old man was so pleased that he called up his contacts in major newspapers and got

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