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Chapter 1 :

Prologue

He was reading the texts more seriously and intensely than an accused who has got to read his own charge sheet.

His presence was assuring that, he doesn't belong to the limited edition people who understand similar race's feelings.

I chose to entertain myself by counting his compressed lethal farts, meanwhile he was doing visual postmortem of my work.

Why the hell is it compulsory to breath even if you choose to die rather than taking dirty oxygen polluted by such a human gutter. I thought.

After a short curious reading, he looked into my eyes in a disgusting way as if he has sensed that I was counting his farts, and asked.

Do you really think, this can be published?
He was damn confidant in his review that I should have told him, no sir, these sheets are just for cleaning baby-shits!

Sir please go through it. I am sure you will find it interesting enough. Composing myself, I said.

No, no, no, my dear, cutting me amid, he began: 'People like you think that we are here to just read this kind of waste all day long and go home with headache.'

"No, you are here to kill people by your life-taking farts." I murmured.


'Anything  that you write, you think, will fetch you Booker prize.' 'You are not Amish, nor you are Chetan Bhagat whose texts will create war among publishers.'

'This bundle of papers are no more worth than to be used as Samosa plates.', he concluded.

Modesty was dying in me slowly, I was hardly controlling myself. His harsh comments were making me remind of those harsh comments of British writer Macaulay about the vernacular literature of India in his Macaulay's Minutes long back in 1830s in pre-independence era.
He had disgraced our Indian writings obnoxiously and expressed, "The whole Indian vernacular literature is worthless against a single shelf full of English literature. It is the wastage of paper if Indian literature gets printed on it."

"Fuck you, bloody farty", I wanted to scream but didn't.

'Go and try somewhere else, we cannot print this piece of crap.', he said adjusting on his chair to fire another shot.

"Learn some etiquette lessons Mr Bayal." I heard a sonorous bass voice behind me.

"You have forgotten how to talk to someone."--Silence--spreaded throughout the cabin.

"You should not forget that you and I both are here because of these people and their hard work."
Bayal was listening quietly and making faces as if he has finally smelled his own air.

"They arrange our bread and butter. Don't you know that", the man thundered.

I was completely overwhelmed with this Bollywood style angry young man entry. I looked behind enthusiastically to see a not so young man, with spectacles, trimmed beard, a little fatty like me, wearing violet colour full sleeve Kurta along with jeans. Suddenly I became nostalgic and was imagining my childhood favorite superhero Shaktiman in him.
His maroon attire with golden embroidery over it making it more close to that of Shaktiman's. "He has just appeared to save me from the verbal rape of that filthy creature." I thought.

My heart was crying, Shaktiman, "PLEASE SAVE ME FROM THIS BEAST AND HIS AIR STRIKES." 

I didn't understand if he heard my loud enough silent crying, he smiled and asked me to come along with him to his office.

'This is my last warning to you Mr Bayal, I won't tolerate this kind of behavior any more.', the man said to Bayal before turning back towards his office. *************


I followed him till we reached at a medium size room. The walls of that room were completely covered with different frames of various honors, awards & trophies. I felt like giving them a close look but didn't.
He took his chair indicating me to sit in front of him. I read the nameplate on his desk, it was written- Gangadhar Kashyap, chief editor. Again the name made me remember my superhero. My eyes were nearly seeing him in that dress now. I was singing Shaktiman song internally.

"Don't mind about the words of Mr Bayal, he just gets frustrated sometimes", he said.

It's OK sir, I said modestly.

So, what is your name young writer? He asked leaning backward on his chair.

My nostrils suddenly went on high alert mode seeing his movement on the chair. "A burnt child dreads the fire." I guessed.
Anant Sagar, sir. I said being afraid about the possible catastrophe.

Again to my surprise, he smiled as if he was hearing me, and said, very interesting name, Anant Sagar sounds like endless ocean----smiled.

I thought if I could just say Thank you Shaktiman, for the appreciation and especially for not being the bird of same feather in your office. But I managed with a mere thank you sir.

"Duniya mein kitna gham hai, mera gham kitna kam hai.", his phone rang with an old Bollywood song's ringtone.

Hello! Of course, we are considering your novel Mr. Pandey, it will be published, if I didn't get anything more interesting and worthy than your story. He said on the phone.

Yeah! You Just wait for one more week after that we will sit together and talk about everything. Okay? Hmmmmm! Your welcome, bye.

Nice ringtone sir. "World is full of so much stress, To me, My pains seems very less." I tried my hands in translating it into English. I said while he was dropping his phone on his Kurta pocket.

Excellent translation, must say. He appreciated my novice effort.

Thank you sir. I just... 

You  drink coffee? He asked without paying much regard to my gratitude. 

I nodded. Without wasting a fraction of movement, he took the landline phone on his desk and dialed a number and asked to bring two cups of coffee. I really didn't know why but I was feeling that this man is the man I was searching for. A man who gives priority to the piece of art not to the name stuck with it.

A man who is not associated to the gang of nerds who gets ready to publish anything that could earn them money.

I was seeing the curiosity in his eyes, the eyes which can read the purity of art, the eyes which are capable of reading beyond the texts.

So Mr Sagar, what exactly you have with you? A collection of poems, short story, a biography, a novel, a book of essays or something other than these? He asked.

It is more an autobiography less a novel, Sir. I replied and offered him the bundle of pages. To my utter surprise he pushed the bundle along with my hand again to me and said: I won't read, I'll listen.

You  will listen the entire novel? It will take your whole day Sir, I said in surprise. 

So , you suppose to go somewhere today? he asked. 

No , Sir. But you must have some important works to finish, that's why. 

How  would you know that? I don't have anything to do today. You just tell me about your autobiography cum novel, he reiterated. 

Our conversation interrupted with a sudden knock at the office door. 

Come in! Said he.

It was a peon with coffee and a bowl of wafers and biscuits in a tray in his hands. I got the idea from where his tummy was growing like corruption in our country by seeing the choice of snacks he was served. I was astonished to see his hospitality. I had barred tantrums of a number of dictator type editors but he was different altogether. 

The nostalgia of being with my superhero captured my mind and in spite of resisting to the fullest, I again began to sing the Shaktiman song internally.

Thank you, we'll manage, you go. He said to the peon who tried to make our coffees. 

You  haven't begun Mr. Sagar? He interrupted my thoughts. 

OK  then Sir, if you want to listen then it will be my pleasure to narrate to you. 
                  ****************