Centenarian writer
Everything was ready. The whole country was getting ready to pay
tribute to the centenarian writer. Scoring a century is truly an
achievement, in all fairness.
The writer was so feeble. He hardly spoke. So the day he turns 100,
that is after midnight of February 9 the Wednesday, all the media would
be busy. Of course the Government channels were favoured for telecasting
the event first. The event was held at the Sugathadasa stadium.
Premier mobile telecommunication networks were busy too thinking of
questions to the customers. No telecommunication company wanted to miss
this opportunity. This precious opportunity everybody’s attention was
drawn to.
Sharp at 12 midnight on February 9, I repeat, the writer would turn a
centenarian. Finally all the mobile companies posed the question: what
will be the first word this centenarian writer would utter?
Astrologers all over the country opined this is a blessing to the
country as well as its literature. One astrologer said he would live
five more years for sure. One astrologer was not sure how long he would
live on. Another said he will die, but in seven years – that too in
sleep. The first words he would say after he turns 100, a famous
astrologer noted, would decide the country’s future of next 50 years.
A competition was held to choose the announcer to interview the
writer when he turns 100. Only topmost announcers were allowed to face
the competition. There was no sms vote, but only a panel of three judges
to measure their knowledge of literature and general knowledge. Finally
the announcer was chosen.
 Who is this writer, by the way?
He stopped writing a long time ago when he knew it won’t bring him
that much of money. Since he had not practised anything else, he did not
have a proper job. And apparently he was deprived of a proper place to
live and proper life too. His children were educated in many things but
writing, so they were well off. They had a life so good and proper.
As the news of him reaching century spread on, one parliamentarian
wanted to build a mansion. Then another parliamentarian came forward and
presented the writer a Benz. Unfortunately the writer was too feeble to
walk around the mansion.
The minister, who did not want to disappoint the media friends he had
invited, forced the writer’s family members to make him walk around the
mansion. Over night-time news everybody could see the minister smilingly
talk to the writer. Writer, on the other hand, gave a little smile too.
But that ended in a tragic way. When he was about to get into the
Benz, his head hit the car’s roof. He was immediately hospitalized,
because it bled somewhat a lot. In the meantime three doctors were
posted to keep tabs on the writer’s health. Apart from the head injury,
they reported, the writer remains as fit as a fiddle.
His messy table was dusted off and the worn out books were thrown
away. Otherwise people won’t get a good impression of his life - that
was the opinion of a television program producer. Writer’s son had no
option either, as he was pressurized by a politician.
The country must have had centenarian writers before, but they must
have passed away unnoticed.
Who discovered this writer is going to be 100 soon? It was one Mr
Elapanava. He had immense publicity too.
Secretly he signed some contracts with some companies. He was in fact
at a loss to choose a mobile network. In the end he requested for two
dual sim phones, so that he could use all four mobile networks. That was
not a bad deal and the request was granted duly.
One Indian expert was summoned to work on the writer’s make up. It
has to be special, because everything including his creases should look
apparent. That too should show he is really going to be 100. Otherwise
rumour mills would say this is nothing but some fraud.
And finally the moment arrived.
Spotlight was focused on the writer.
A smiling announcer was doing his job – flowery speech, dancing eyes,
charming smile and all that you got to do and have as an announcer -
until the clock strike midnight.
And then he congratulated the writer first.
Without responding, the writer observed the announcer. At first
glance he seemed like a lonely scarecrow. Then a ghost. The announcer’s
eyes flashed briefly, but soon he seemed to grow uneasy.
Someone broke into the scene ignoring the spotlight. He was a doctor,
viewers knew, because he acted like one. The writer smiled one last
time, faintly.
“Writer…”
Still no response. Phone calls had to be put on hold.
The writer’s gaze did not change. His eyes were still open. Cameras
panned closer to the doctor. His eyes widened in unspoken warning.
Then he made his discovery public: the writer is dead!
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