By Knockings on the door-By Sushant Thapa
Deepak was playing with his old lighter. His old room had just got a new friend. The old typist was overjoyed and was not sad at all when Deepak bought a new typewriter for his room from the typist. Deepak would write every morning and would try to immerse in it. Deepak sometimes wrote poetry, but he was striving for some short fiction. Like a crispy taste of a potato chip, crispy words from Deepak’s mouth dropped like an atom bomb, and blasted all over the pages. All by himself, Deepak would hear the ticking of the wall clock and the wall lizard. He slightly philosophized their ticking and thought about it. He had read the morning news that day and had come to know that the English broadsheet had announced a story writing competition with a huge amount of cash prize. Deepak had a compulsion to get the prize. His landlord had threatened him for the rent. The landlord was away for now but was returning any day soon. Deepak needed to hurry.
Deepak shaved and got ready to write something, he had carefully parted hair, a fair complexion which the shaving enlightened more, he was tall and slim. In the morning light he was still wearing a nightdress and he looked like a blown-out candle withstanding the wind. He was swift in his appearance. He would immerse in his chair beside the window, which faced the pond. Deepak would sometimes visit the pond and would write poetry. “I lost the tide in my heart/ Looking at a ripple in my pond.” This was what Deepak once wrote. For him the tide was the story which he hadn’t begun yet.
Deepak thought hurriedly in his thoughts and movements, he was walking restlessly inside his room from one corner to another. “Landlord would return any day; I should finish the story and send it to the broadsheet before the deadline is over.” Deepak’s room was above the cacophony of the city, tourist guides would come and go, they would give a wailing cry to the tourists and take them to their destinations. Surya was a tourist guide who worked night shift, and would stand below Deepak’s room. The wailing in the concrete was like a chilled air of winter, which touched everyone. Overlooking a window Deepak was all set for writing. His landlord who had gone to the village to take care of his sick mother would be coming anytime now. It was difficult for Deepak to take care of his writing because of the quick deadline and the overwhelming pressure about the landlord. The wailing road and the bustle of the city distracted him this time. It was already night now, and Deepak was not able to decide a title for his work. He remembered his student days in Delhi when he would write a research paper first and then would decide the title later. It worked somehow.
“I have to solve three problems; write a story before the deadline extinguishes, arrange money for the landlord if I am unable to get my writing published and decide my title.” Triviality of these issues haunted Deepak. The only good thing happening was at the backdrop of the window. The city welcomed tourists and after all, it was modern Kathmandu. All the money that Deepak had was gone; he had bought a typewriter with it. He did it for sheer interest. He thought he can approach the old typist and borrow some money, but he couldn’t approach him as he lacked courage. The next day Deepak woke up with a knock in his door. He peeped through the peephole and found that it was Surya, the tourist guide.
“Good morning, my man. How well are you living today?”
“Came by to see you, saw your curtains closed for this warm sunlight of winter.”
Surya talked through the peephole and Deepak opened the door to let him in.
Deepak said “Good morning. I was disturbed by the city yesterday, so the curtain is still closed.” “How did your night shift go?”
“As usual” replied Surya. “Nothing new is happening; tourists still visit us, as long as they keep coming business keep shape.”
“Something external has to knock our door so we can open up, you know.” Deepak seemed to find the guide meaningful.
It reflected Deepak’s situation. What would be his external factor that would knock his door?”
In the meanwhile there was another knock on the door
“Open up, I have a business with you, Mister.” The landlord shouted behind the door.
It was a fine morning, but it was getting darker for Deepak. The landlord was already here and perhaps would ask for the money, he hadn’t written a story and there was no question to think about the unwritten title, unlike those student days in Delhi. Deepak thought to face it all, and he opened the door.
“My mother in the village passed away; I performed her funeral rites yesterday,” said the landlord.
Deepak felt sorry for the landlord and he also realized that the landlord is not in need of the money at this immediate hour. Deepak began to inquire the landlord about the funeral rites and he managed to get hold of some information which he thought might be meaningful for his story which he was about to begin. He also talked about the experiences of the tourist guide, and asked how foreigners react or what do they share when they visit the country. Differences in funeral rites in Kathmandu and other cities of the world also became one of his diverse topics.
By the evening a manuscript was ready, the two knockings on the door helped Deepak to write a story and finish it, and it was all ready to be sent for the broadsheet. After two days Deepak got a letter that the story was accepted and it won the competition. Deepak’s narration, experiences, and the philosophy of the external factors knocking on the door paved its way to success.
Deepak fictionalized the reality well. All those information were real, and they only needed to be fictionalized. Any sudden reality could come like a shock in our life and perhaps we should learn to fictionalize it, and suit it to ourselves. We just need to open the door and face the problems. The case could have been different for Deepak if the landlord’s mother hadn’t passed away. However, that is not the case and the reality can never be understood beforehand; such is the slipping fate of a human. The case for Deepak made him a good observer and a great deal of his patience was put under test.
Letter to My Future Self | Poetry by Sabi Thapa
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