Page 146 - Musings 2021

Rustom a column to publish his work. Rustom’s work was published and was well received
by critics, and now he got a column of his own in a leading newspaper.

He wanted to break the good news to the old man himself — he ran from the newspaper’s
office to the old man’s bungalow, as fast as he could — something that he would not have
done on a hot summer day in North India. But he could not thank the old man enough — he
had done so much for him, now he could afford a place of his own, he could now follow his
passion, and as for the tea stall, it could be put on rent for some extra income. Most
importantly, he could now care for his mother — and himself — and still save some money.
They would no longer be poor.

To his disappointment, the old man was nowhere to be seen. There was a note at the door, left
by the old man himself, “Dear Rustom, my purpose is now complete. Please go on with your
life. Whenever you need inspiration, take a look at the marble. Take care of your mother. We
shall meet again. R.”

Rustom had never talked about his mother with the old man, and neither did he ask. He did
not even know the name of the old man for he had only ever called him ’sir’; he cursed
himself for being stupid enough to not ask him his name. But these things did not bother

Rustom, for he was overwhelmed with emotion. He sobbed and wept and swore at the old
man for being so selfish. “How could he ever leave like that?” Devastated, he cried his heart
out.

He had never met his father. But today he had lost someone no less than a father.

It is said that time is the best healer. Eventually Rustom overcame his grief. He rented a
modest sized room in the city, and life went back to normal. A few years passed by, and he
had now saved enough money to go to college and study literature. He graduated with
honours. He would write for newspapers, and in a few years time he wrote his first novel.

And whenever he was stuck in the writer’s block, he would take a look at the marble —
which was supposed to inspire him — but he could only see himself in the reflection, that too
upside down.

His mother did not live long enough to see what destiny had in mind for her son. Though
Rustom was in grief, he knew her sacrifices had not been in vain, and he had indeed made her
proud.

Years passed by, and Rustom wrote many works of literature — two of which would go on to
win the Booker prize and the Pulitzer Prize. He was a celebrity writer now — like the old
man was. He bought a mansion, a Mercedes, and his own chauffeur. He was elected professor
of English Literature at a prestigious university. Though he had reached heights he had never
dreamt of, his feet were still grounded — he knew what poverty was like and what education
and proper guidance could do.

Glaucoma and diabetes run in families. As Rustom got old, he gradually lost his eyesight and
could no longer hear — unless spoken to loudly and clearly. At the ripe age of ninety-six, he
had gotten used to walking with a stick and wearing black glasses. He had people to look

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