Jewel-less Crown: Saga of Life by BS Murthy (novels for teenagers .TXT) 📖

Weaving a story in an intricate plot, he completed his second novel in double quick time. It was as if his bottled up creativity was too eager to find its way out. Naming it as the ‘Consigned Conscience’, he nevertheless sent the manuscript to all the Delhi-wallahs at one go, though with a sense of resignation. And as another subject with a new dimension infused his urge to write, he plunged himself into his third novel.

As he was in the thick of action by the time the expected rejections arrived, they failed to dampen his spirit. And, one publisher’s missive that the theme was interesting but they wouldn’t be interested in publishing the same amused him as well. And that made him wonder as to how to write a theme-less wonder for their approval, that was, if they were serious!

When in time, he completed his third novel; he realized that he was back to the reality of life. By then, however, he realized that to be published, one needed either a reference or a recognizable name. As he knew none who ever stepped into the corridors of a publishing house, he thought, before submitting his fresh manuscript, it was an idea to make a name for himself.

Realizing that in the media world, the divider between notoriety and fame was rather thin, he wanted to turn notorious to help the cause of his writing. So he came to New Delhi, to be a part of the crowd that greeted the Prime Minister on his birthday. With a rose with thorns in his hand, he had no problem with the security personnel there. It was thus, he found himself in the queue and waited for his moment. And when the Prime Minister came near him, he pricked at his face with that rose of thorns. When the security detained him for wrongful assault, the media picked up the story to splash it on the front pages.

And that gave him the much-wanted name, didn’t it? Even before he could grasp the import of his notoriety, every publisher in Delhi approached him to commission him into writing ‘Why I pricked at the PM’s face!’ Though vindicated, he experienced the problems of plenty as all pressurized him to sign for them. But, for sentimental reasons, he opted to write for that book house, reading whose publications helped him mature into a writer. Though he wrote his three novels at breakneck speed for they carried conviction, he found himself struggling to put a sentence in place for the commissioned work.

When in the end, Suresh wanted to know how he believed his rejected works were worth their effort, Rau said that it was a good question, and mulled over for an answer.

“If only you know,” said Rau, “why a hand-to-mouth someone, neglecting his means of survival, wrote ten hours a day for years on, that would answer your question. But as that is too abstract to carry conviction, let me draw your   focus on my body of work. Well, all my novels were products of original ideas from the plot downwards. Good or bad that makes them works of art. After all, what is a novel but a creative idea that ever holds in the context? Besides, the beauty of fiction in part is that it tends to lead towards the fact.”

“Why did you write the second and third novels when there were no takers for the first one?”

“In its essence, writing is primarily an art of self-expression,” said Rau. “And about novel writing, didn’t Jane Austin say that ‘in a novel the greatest faculties of human mind are on display.’ Only after handling a couple or more themes would a novelist come to know about the true capacity of his creative mind. Besides, of what worth is a novelist if he fails to make each of his work unique in itself. But, the bane of the modern world of letters is that many are writing though they have no business to write. But with so many imitating the existing, or writing out of the libraries, there is a surfeit of pseudo fiction. But, a novel is the brainchild of imagination and not a hotchpotch of all that’s known. And it is this narrative routine that makes the genuine readers skeptical about the novels in general. And that’s how the classic novel and the genuine novelists have come to grief alike.”

Finally, Suresh wanted to know how Rau handled the failures.

“The beauty of the endeavor obliterates the ugliness of the rejection,” said Rau. “As I was ever engaged in trying, I had no time to masticate my failures.”

“All said and done,” said Suresh, “what sense does it made of being a writer?”

“If anything,” said Rau, “writing a book is like planting a seed. And if it gets published, it’s like the sprouting of a plant. If not, it’s a lonely furrow in a no-man’s land. Like the gardener tends the plant into a tree, it’s the readers who help the book grow in stature. Blessed are the authors who would be able to live long enough to smell that their readers savored the fruits of their creativity. Oh, how that affords such the emotional fulfillment associated with original writing and the ego gratification that applause accords! And in spite of the media hype to the hilt, I'm not sure if all the writer-celebrities derive the emotional fulfillment associated with creative writing. Whatever, in my case, the pain of rejection made me immune to frustration.”

After having heard Rau, Suresh felt that in the world of letters, the published and the unpublished writers, being free, were alike condemned.

 

Episode 4

Renaissance of Life

 

Stirred by Subba Rau’s intellectualism, Suresh pondered over his right to live after having snuffed out Shanti's life.

‘What does my killing her really mean?’ he thought. ‘By ending her life what I deprived her were the possibilities of life. Oh, the poor thing, what dreams she might have had and what life would have offered her! How happy she would have made her man and their children! Who knows what difference she would have made to the people around her? Why wouldn’t she have enriched the society at large and contributed to the world even? But my senseless act ruined all that, didn’t it? And being featured here what does life hold for me either? If only I were hanged, I wouldn’t have to endure all these despairs of denial. She is dead and gone, and as they say, the dead have no problems, but my crime has made me a lifeless corpse! Wouldn’t it be burdensome living in the denial mode? It serves me right for depriving the possibilities of her life!’

‘What about all these who are locked up here?’ he began to wonder. ‘What possibilities of life do they really have behind the bars? Don’t they realize that by slaying whom they hated, they compromised their own life forever? But, isn’t revenge a mad emotion, and murder its negative outcome? How naïve it is to imagine that the threat of the gallows would deter one to resort to murdering! It is man’s negative mindset that makes him go after someone’s throat. In his mad rage, would man ever envision the noose around his own neck? Having avenged himself, possibly, he wouldn’t even care if he were hanged then and there. If only one realizes that by killing the other, he was burying the possibilities of his own life, won't the sense of self-preservation obliterate the urge for revenge? And the law, instead of stressing upon the dangling by the rope, would serve well by highlighting the despairing aspects of life behind bars. Then, wouldn’t it be a case of saving a life to save lives?’

It too dawned on him that since the possibilities of his life were within Tihar, he should be alive to the reality of it all. With the appreciation of the situation of his life thus, he began to see what possibilities it held for him. And as the empathy he developed for the fellow prisoners gave him a new insight about himself, he found solace in helping the troubled. Thus, as he tried to make life easy for others, he was relieved of his own pain as well.

Soon it occurred to him that it took more than sympathy to solace the troubled when the anxieties were monitory. Ironically, it was the immense wealth that the father accumulated to his own grief that came in handy in his son’s endeavor to help the hapless. Realizing that the kith of the violators were as much the victims as the kin of their victims, he began to assist the needy from the crime divide. Espying the signs of relief in the visages of the beneficiaries, he felt that their easy breaths might soothe his mother’s troubled soul. What's more, the progress reports he regularly sent to Vanaprastham about his own crusade at Tihar insensibly lightened Gautam’s burden of guilt by degrees. And the messages of peace he received from his father, in turn, gladdened Suresh’s ethos no end.

But, the thought of atrocities against women continued to weigh upon his consciousness. Privy to the pains of rape, women became the Achilles’ heel of his tranquility. Applying his mind he reckoned that woman were more susceptible to molestation within her home than to her rape without. And he racked his brains to help those thus threatened in precincts of their own dwellings. Besides psychological guidance and emotional support, he realized that these hapless women needed legal help to fight for justice. Thus, he thought of a home for women in distress and wrote to his father to build one under the auspices of Vanaprastham.

As Sripada Swami gave his blessings to the novel venture, Gautam took it upon himself to fulfill his son’s wish. In time, the progress of the works at Annavaram became the focus of Suresh’s attention in Tihar. Having been enthused by his son’s obsession to his project, Gautam doubled up his effort to hasten its completion. Besides, he posted the pictures of the work-in-progress to his son to enable him to visualize his dream in the making. Soon, Suresh began craving to meet his father to express his gratitude in person, but Gautam didn’t relent from his vow never to set foot in Delhi again.

When Suresh received the news clippings from the regional press about the inauguration of Shanti Sadan by Sripada Swami, he had a feeling of reprieve from his sense guilt. Meanwhile, his zest for life and zeal to be of help to the needy was not lost on Rakesh Tiwari and the other warders. Convinced about his boundless potential to contribute to the society as a free man, they made it their mission to earn him an early remission. Thus, it was only time before they succeeded and Suresh was all set to leave Tihar.

That noon when the sun on Lutyen’s Delhi’s skies was at its zenith, Suresh was led out of Tihar that destiny had made it his home for seven youthful years. And he stepped out of the imposing gates to explore life as a free soul in the same world where he had failed before. But he couldn’t help staring at Tihar’s facade as though to grasp the reality of his release. As he set out to walk into the waiting Ambassador, he felt as though the burden of freedom bogged him down. When he got into the back seat, he felt as if he were sinking into the upholstery. When the car moved towards Misty Nest, he lowered the panes as though to remove the barrier. And inclined as he was to savor the sight of freedom, he asked the chauffeur to slow down. In time, the change in Delhi’s skyline made him feel alien in the city of his origin.

The sight of pretty women on the way troubled him all the way. It dawned upon him that the prospect of not finding a bride