Take it or leave it
My friend texts me accusingly: ‘Your this friend, that friend is used
too much’. Well I have been writing about my encounters with friends
time after time. The thing is my friends are so generous to feed my poor
soul. Knowingly or unknowingly they keep on doing it – and I’ve now
become a parasite.
My warning to you, dear reader: I’m not going to be an exception
today. This is going to be yet another story with a friend involved!
Not so long ago did he relate this story to me. But on the condition
that I should not publish the story. As long as you are in the dark
about the actual people and places, I think I’m safe. I can go ahead.
After all I just cannot hold back the temptation to share the story
with you, though in specks.
Once upon a time there lived a rich man. He had everything to his
liking especially because his business empire was so vast. Vaster than
you can imagine! He was always trotting across the globe with a passion
for expensive masterpieces of any kind of arts: sculpture, painting,
books and so on.
But still this man was aesthetically frustrated. He felt bankrupt
nearly all the time. He wanted to do something special to become
immortal.
One fine evening he threw a grand banquet to his intellectual
friends. Now don’t expect me to give details of those intellectual
friends – because I too don’t know. But the rich man was particularly
fond of one friend, who is a writer.
While the merriment was in high pitch, these two had a light talk.
For good times’ sake, you know. So that’s when the rich man blurted out
his secret desire.
The writer-friend smiled and said the solution is out in the open.
“Write your autobiography. I mean don’t phrase it as a biography. Try
to remember your childhood in the village. And mould it into a novel.”
That’s a good idea, the rich man thought. That’s something in fashion
now that everyone writes their memories. All those people who migrated
to the city from the village for better prospects have now grown old.
They are just like old cranes lamenting by dried-off lakes, with nothing
much to do. Writing down memories, if anything. Whether people are
really interested in those good old days or not, it really doesn’t
count, does it?
And yes, the man wrote the novel finally, in English. He had written
about all those poor village folk struggling everyday just for the sake
of some money. In their evening leisure the young would discuss the
James Joyce style.
Even though they are left hungry at nights, they were never reluctant
to talk about Picasso style of painting. Though their schools still
haven’t got an English teacher – and their farmer parents speaking no
English either – these high-spirited young people talk seriously about
the way we Sinhalese could be influenced by William Shakespeare!
Rich man was quite happy – more than happy, in fact – with the finish
of the book.
He read his own lines again and again. And he emailed the draft to
the writer friend with high hopes. And the writer-friend of course
responded by the return mail.
I have read your book. It’s interesting. And I appreciate it as a
maiden attempt. But at the same time I request you to let me get
straight on this affair. I cannot see how on earth could you make those
poor young villagers talk of some foreign stuff when they hardly know an
English word. I’m sorry to say but it affects the credibility of your
work.
Honestly wouldn’t they have been talking of Martin Wickramasinghe
instead of Shakespeare? Sarlis instead of Picasso? Just a suggestion.
Thanks my friend anyway for giving us this work of art. I really
appreciate your effort.”
Sadly there was no response by the return mail to the writer friend.
He waited for a few more days. No acknowledgment let alone a response. I
don’t know if you took in the story all right, so let me remind you I’m
not at liberty to fire off the whole story.
There is a difference between harsh and constructive criticism.
A well wisher or a friend may criticize genuinely and that’s like
pointing to a hidden treasure (if I may quote from Buddhist scriptures).
I’m talking only about the genuine critics here. Suppose he got the
message wrong – still it’s no excuse to shoo him away. Perhaps you may
convince him you did it on purpose to convey irony or something. Whoever
it is can go on criticizing, but isn’t it up to us to accept it or not?
Now, not that it really matters… but will my friend discover I’ve
been unfaithful to him?
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