Beware inflammable thoughts!
 My friend wanted to see me by the sea, the one that overlooks the old
parliamentary building. Having read his maiden novel, I visited him as
the dusk gathered slowly. Disappointingly he did not seem to have any
interest to hear me. Rather I had a story to give a hearing.
His novel had a warm positive response since manuscript stages. Quite
joyously he had related to his friend, a well known elderly poet, that
he finally could finish a novel. My friend is only 25 and the poet is
well over 60.
"Can you imagine what his response was?" My friend asked.
"Of course, no." I said quite impatient, eager to hear out the story.
"He said I'm too naïve to write a novel. I'm still a bud, not yet
blossomed into a flower, and I have to wait for some more years to
gather experience and then write a novel."
 I was watching my friend's face - is it a painting of pained
feelings? But his face looked smudged with soft stubble.
"That's appalling. How could he have said such a thing? Doesn't he
have common sense to think something like that will discourage a young
writer?" A huge wave hit upon a small one. I couldn't control irritation
in my tone.
My friend smiled.
"On the contrary, it inspired me."
May be he wants to feign indifference, who knows? It's common and,
after all, human.
"It may have inspired you. But definitely he didn't like the idea of
you writing a novel so young. He wrote his maiden novel only a few
months ago."
"May be you are right. But those few words were enough to make him my
teacher."
"Your teacher? Because he advised you not to write a novel so soon?"
"Well, honestly I was also disturbed at first. I was hurt in fact. I
was discouraged. I was demotivated. All kinds of nasty thoughts flooded
in my mind. I couldn't do anything. I wanted to publish the manuscript
quickly, show it to him and tell him see this is what I have done. I
didn't have mood for anything. Then I realised I hate the poet like
nothing."
The sea suddenly became quiet. I was silently listening to him speak
straight into my face.
"But then I could feel another voice inside. That voice cried out
aloud: 'wait'. I knew it's a result of a little bit of mind-training I
have been developing. I started watching my thoughts and feelings trying
best not to get glued into."
I could hear the waves hitting each other, with less noise this time.
"Many people admired and praised the novel manuscript, and I was sort
of carried away. I started looking for praise all the time. So obviously
I got hurt when I didn't get it. What the poet said attacked my ego. I
was not ready for such an attack." He paused for a while.
"Then I reflected why I felt so bad about the poet. I wrote a novel.
Everyone praised it. It looked a great work. I had built up a huge
mansion of conceit. Praise was expensive bricks. I felt I'm infallible
and don't deserve such criticism. Actually none of the flattery or
praise made me think this far."
"Flattery is not bad." I chipped in.
"And it teaches hardly anything. You know most precious things in
life don't come in books. There is much more to read in what's around
you."
"So do you think he was right when he said you are not matured enough
to write a novel?" He suddenly burst into laughter. It was not forced, I
sensed.
"When you are really matured you'll never write a novel. No, you
won't write anything."
"So then why did you consider him a teacher?"
"What he said doesn't make sense. Even a small child could write a
novel if he has enough experience. Only obstacle is language. But this
poet let me watch my emotions and feelings."
"I can see that."
"When someone flatters you, true, it encourages you and everything.
You think you are smart, but actually you are not. You realize it when
someone attacks your ego, because it forces you to look at yourself. You
can see your own nudity. You realize you have been sleeping on a pile of
evil thoughts."
"Sort of, yes."
"It's like this, friend. In a quiet forest, we think we are peaceful.
But you can understand it best when you see yourself close to a noisy
factory, in the noon under heavy sunshine sweating all over, perhaps
amid heavy traffic. What would you feel?"
I kept silent.
"If you are peaceful, the outside environment cannot shake you. When
you train your mind, things like criticism and noisy environment are
good fertilizer to inquire yourself. The quiet environment makes you
deceive yourself about being peaceful. But when you are in noisy
environs, it teaches you a lot about patience and mental relaxation."
"So finally what happened?"
"Reflecting on these things, it's really amazing. I could look at
those feelings. Those evil feelings of hurt, anger and everything faded
one by one. And you know I was quite relaxed.
"I realized flattery is cunning waters that keep me from inquiring
myself out. May be he doesn't know, but the poet taught me a wonderful
lesson."
"But still I think the poet is hypocritic."
"In a standard sense, yes," he didn't seem to like my remark, "but
who cares about others? We should learn to look at ourselves. We should
be selfish at least in this instance."
For a moment, his face seemed a montage of intricate thoughts trying
to dig the deep depths of sea.
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