The Writer Who Couldn't Write

A story about someone losing their ability to write, but not because of a Writer's block

1

 

 

 

“It’s strange that you can’t write anymore,” said Noel.

“Even more so since I’m a writer,” said Vikram disgruntledly.

“And to think that you put in so much effort to go to Japan and learn the language! All the good work undone by a measly stroke!” Noel twitched jokingly.

“Well, it’s not like I knew I was going to have a stroke.”

Noel mellowed his voice smiled at Vikram in a consoling manner. “Strokes are more common than you think, Vikram.”

“Yeah, but losing your ability to write because of a stroke isn’t that common!”

Noel pushed back into his chair and chuckled. He handled his glass of Port but put it down. His laughter made it impossible to take a sip.

Vikram turned and looked out the window. He brought his hand in front of his face and stared at it. He had been born with a surgeon’s hands, although he didn’t put them to any such use. But it had still been a matter of some pride for him that his hands were always rock steady. He felt his success as a writer had something to do with the nature of his hands.

Vikram had grown up in an age without computers and had never liked the monotonous clicking of typewriters. His medium of writing had always been pen and paper. But after having a stroke a month ago he had lost his ability to write. He could spell words fine and read and dictate them alright. He even retained the ability to spell out how the hiragana and katakana words that he had recently learned in Japan should be written, but just couldn’t write them himself. When he held the pen his fingers disobeyed him. It was as if a bundle of invisible webs shackled them. The more he tried to free them, the more his fingers shook and ached. Even writing a single sentence tired him out, and the words just wouldn’t come out right.

The doctor had labelled it a case of agraphic apraxia. Vikram frowned. He hadn’t liked the sound of it. Any sort of jargon made him frown. He was fine with esoteric words, for knowing their context allowed one to understand and appreciate them. But not jargon. Vikram always felt people used those terms to create an opportunity to regurgitate their knowledge. Whenever a doctor used such a term, though, it could never be good news.

 

Vikram sighed and looked out the windows facing Mumbai’s Marine Drive. The sea breeze blew with its usual panache. The restaurant always flung the windows open after sundown. He didn’t much like the food served there, but the ambience attracted him whenever he happened to be in the city.

There was a small patio and a few tables in a clearing outside the inner air-conditioned room. He always found it better to sit somewhere in the open during the evening, especially whenever he was so close to the sea. The curved corridor had enough room for a dozen tables and leave space for people to find their way and for waiters to meander towards their customers. More than the breeze and a general relaxed aura of the place, it was its redolence that always appealed to Vikram. It made him ignore the dirty tablecloth. But Vikram could never make out if it was really dirty or if it was a trick of the restaurant’s dim lighting.

The one hour commute through the local train network didn’t bother him. He travelled after the rush hour, so there weren’t as many people to push and wriggle through. What bothered him was that the number of people in his locality had grown tremendously. He had bought a house there specifically because of the relative peace it offered. But two decades of growth had reached and crossed his area. It was no different than the main city now. In fact, it was much worse.

Waiting for Noel’s laughter to die out, he looked at the faces at the adjacent table. A large group of corporate employees drank and ate and talked noisily. They were all in their late twenties. He could tell by their clothes that they had come straight from work and were all complaining about their workplace. It being a Friday night, Vikram thought they were just out to spend their hefty salaries getting drunk for the weekend, living the last days of bachelor life before their parents married them off.

It all made Vikram feel disconnected with his surroundings, as was quite often the case. He had never had a job and had never been much of a drinker. The only thing he had in common with them was being a bachelor. But he was in his mid-forties, so the similarity ended there. His Indian nationality and marital status set him apart from a large portion of the country’s sizeable population, only compounding his feeling of disconnect. But he didn’t mind.

“So tell me, did they call you Vik-lum there in Japan?” said Noel, bringing his glass of Port to his lips.

“Quite a few of them, yes. But not everyone. Most of them called me Chauhan-san out of courtesy and a formal relation. I only had friendly relations with a handful of people, so it wasn’t that big a concern.”

“You making few friends hardly sounds surprising.”

“Besides,” continued Vikram, disregarding Noel’s intervention, “it’s a land of different dialects. Some find it easier to pronounce words as people in other parts do. But they all tried pronouncing it right. That’s something you don’t find in the west.”

“Well, that’s kind of a broad statement,” said Noel, knitting his eyebrows.

“Not really. Take yourself for example. You’ve known me for over a decade, yet you still call me Vik-RAM. It’s pronounced rum, not ram. You possess the linguistic skills to say my name right, but you just don’t make the effort.”

 Noel opened his mouth to say something but checked himself. Vikram liked how Noel always kept an open mind and was willing to entertain the other person’s argument, no matter how strongly he believed in his own opinion. His boisterous blue eyes donned a pensive state when he did that, and it briefly showcased the philosopher that resided within Noel.

“You might be right. I’ll be on the lookout for that from now and see how true it is.”

Vikram nodded and poked at his lasagne. He chewed on it reminiscently for a minute while Noel sat eyeing him.

“Have you tried working with a writer or a typist?” he asked.

 Vikram gestured with his hand and shook his head. “It doesn’t feel right. I cannot put my thoughts properly into words until I write them down. I can talk about the ideas in my mind but writing is more than simply saying what you have in mind. It’s got to take a form that is easy for others to understand and appreciate.”

“I always thought there should be an aesthetic touch to the words coming out of a writer’s pen. What sets him apart from any other literate person who can put pen to paper if not that?”

“Beauty attracts everyone, but it’s understanding that forms connections and brings this world together.”

Noel raised his eyebrows in surprise and took another sip from his glass. “I never knew you were one to think like that!”

“Well, that’s not my base approach to writing. I merely focus on the ideals and ideas that I circulate through my works. Then comes the beauty. It’s like nutrition for an ageing gourmet; important but secondary.”

“What about using your laptop then? There’s a great software called Microsoft Word. You should check it out,” said Noel. Vikram sighed.

“I can’t associate a laptop or a computer with writing, Noel. I just can’t. It’s not that I have anything against computers or technology. But computers and writing have always been mutually exclusive for me.”

“I see. Well, it’s fine if you don’t write something immediately. You wrote a novel a year ago, and you have enough money to last you for a few years at least. But I sense an urgency in Vikram which leads me to believe there’s a story brewing up there,” said Noel, pointing at Vikram’s head. Vikram chuckled.

“You always know when I’ve decided to go through with one of the stories in my mind.”

“I am quite perceptive of such things. Tell me, what kind of a story it is?”

            Vikram chewed on the lasagne for a few seconds. “A love story.”

Noel’s eyes lit up. “Does that mean you’ve finally found a special lady? I’d almost given up on you in that matter, you know. But not my wife. She always said you’d find yourself a lovely lady to fall in love with. There’s nothing like a woman’s intuition!”

“I never said I’m in love, Noel. Besides, I have been in love before. You know that.”

“Oh no, you haven’t. Having a relationship and sleeping with a woman is not love.”

“When did I ever say it was? I know that’s not love. But I have been in love before.”

“No, you’ve not, Vikram,” said Noel, smiling.

“How would you know what I do and don’t feel?”

“No one possibly can. But I know you’ve never been in true love. It’s not something that happens spontaneously, Vikram. It’s something you feel growing and growing until it smothers you into accepting it. When that happens, there’s a clear indication in everything about that person. The devil’s horns or an angel’s wings and halo couldn’t be easier to spot!”

Vikram shook his head and chuckled. “Well, maybe you’re right. I still can’t develop an understanding of these things.”

“Some things can only be understood once you feel them,” said Noel.

“Hmm. But even if I find that woman, it won’t do me any good. My medium is writing. I’ve always used it to woo women into going out and sleeping with me. But my hands are no good anymore.”

Noel remained looking at Vikram for a few seconds. His white skin looked muddy and his curly blond hair looked stale and dirty under the restaurant’s pale yellow light. His black bowling shirt, though, was unaffected by it.

“So you write notes for women you admire and you take it forward from there. I guess it’s not so surprising. A forgotten act, but not unheard of. Besides, people do all sorts of things in these matters.”

“Yeah, so my hands are pretty much tied.”

Noel gulped the remaining contents of his glass and asked for the bill. “You’d be surprised how things can work out,” he said. Vikram smiled to himself and wiped his face. The cool sea breeze rustled his hair. He looked at his hands again before looking outside to the seafront.

A few minutes later, Noel drove away and Vikram remained standing outside the restaurant. A young girl tiredly asked him to buy a balloon so she could feed her hungry sister. He didn’t buy the balloon but handed her a 100 rupee note. He wasn’t concerned if she was scamming him. He had enough money to waste a hundred rupees. The girl looked at the note for a minute, assuring herself that she really held it. Vikram merely patted her on the head and walked away.

He threw away the pen his hand had touched upon in his pocket. It had been an old habit of his to keep a pen handy. But things had changed. The wind was in a coaxing mood, and Vikram decided to take a walk before heading home.

 

2

 

 

 

 

Vikram sat looking at the woman on the opposite seat in the local train. He briefly shifted his gaze when a strapping six feet tall transgender dressed in a sari asked the boy sitting next to the woman for some change. The boy smiled meekly and shrugged his shoulders. The transgender smiled in return, pulled the boy’s cheek softly, and walked on. Barring this brief distraction, Vikram kept his eyes fixed on the woman.

She kept staring out the window looking at nothing in particular. It was a skill Vikram had often marvelled at, for he had always found it impossible to stare out the window of a moving vehicle like that. It was partly because of that, partly because she was quite attractive, but mostly because she was completely unaware of his presence that he remained looking at her.

It was her dungaree that had first caught his eye. He could tell just by looking at her that she was in her thirties. The absence of jewellery and makeup told him she wasn’t married. Her bright and seemingly untouched skin made it difficult to determine her age with precision, but Vikram could tell she was in her thirties. Her dungaree and white sneakers wouldn’t generally suit someone her age, but she filled those clothes as if they were made just for her. Her jet black hair were tied in a neat bun. Not a single strand of hair escaped the clutches of her hairband. The only beauty item she wore were a pair of large, silver earrings, but like everything else about her, including the small mole on her right cheek, they seemed just right. She had the most beautiful pair of hands that Vikram had ever seen.

Her face, though, was sombre, as if she were thinking back to the tough times she had experienced or was going through.

 “Are you Vikram Chauhan?”

Vikram turned towards the young boy who had asked the question. He had smiled and nodded in response. He wondered how the boy recognized him. He had never associated writers with stardom and had never let his picture appear in his books.

“Sir, I’m a huge fan of your work! Would you mind signing my copy of your book? It would mean so much!” said the youngster. Vikram had nodded but regretted doing so when he saw the boy thrust his arm in his bag to produce the book. He had forgotten that it’d be quite impossible to sign the book properly.

“Why don’t I take a picture from your phone? You can always get autographs at book signings. Since this is a different meeting, we should do things differently,” said Vikram in as humble and friendly a tone as possible. The youngster stood astonished for a second but quickly fished for his phone. Vikram stole a glance at the woman. Her face wore the slightest of smiles, but she still looked out the window. He wasn’t even sure what she was smiling about. He sighed and posed for the picture.

 

When Vikram turned into the street he lived he heard someone humming. It was from a song he knew too well but just couldn’t remember. He shut his eyes tight and tried remembering it. The humming became louder as the person neared him. Vikram grimaced and opened his eyes, hoping that he would recall the song’s name soon. He knew it would bother him for the rest of the night, and he wanted a good night’s sleep after having spent recent nights without much sleep. He decided to ask the person and turned around.

There were only a couple of street lights on the road and one of them flickered irritatingly, but Vikram saw the dungaree from afar. The chances of running into two people wearing a dungaree on the same night were quite small, he thought.

He waited as the woman walked towards him with slow but measured steps, all the while humming just that particular portion of the song, as if teasing him. Vikram kept looking at her, hoping to catch her eye and ask her about it. But the woman paid no attention and walked right past him. She didn’t so much as avert her gaze the entire time. She only stopped humming when Vikram spoke.

“That tune, what song is it?” he asked politely. The woman turned swiftly towards him, but the movement was gracious rather than startling. She looked alarmed that someone was standing behind her.

“Oh. It’s a song by Lata Mangeshkar, Lag Ja Gale,” she said, adorning her words with a smile. Her voice didn’t have the fragility and charm that one associates with women of her kind of beauty. It was crisp, and she spoke in a professional manner, as if reading out a legal document. There was an energy in it that stemmed not from exuberance but precision and boldness.

“Ah, yes. Now I remember it. Thank you! It would have bugged me the entire night had I not asked.”

“That voice, you’re the writer who was sitting across me in the train,” she said. Her eyebrows tensed and her smile widened as she said this.

“Yes, I am.”

“Vikram Chauhan,” she said as if she were thinking out loud.

“Correct. I recognized you as well. I can’t remember the last time I saw anyone wearing a dungaree.”

Her face became a bit clouded and her smile almost vanished as she nodded.

“Don’t get me wrong! It’s just that I’ve never seen anyone wearing that outfit. I had wanted one when I was small, but my mother brushed it away as a joke.”

The woman nodded and smiled again. She never looked at Vikram, though. He felt he had upset her.

“I didn’t mean to be rude. I can see you were in a better mood than before, and I apologize for upsetting you again.”

“Why did you think I was in a bad mood earlier?” she said abruptly.

Vikram shrugged. “Well you seemed out of sorts. You had the sort of look one has when they are hurting on the inside. I recognized that look of yours.”

“Was it because you have that look on your face from time to time?” she asked. Vikram opened his mouth but didn’t know what to say. He simply smiled and nodded. “I don’t know how facial expressions work, you know, so I don’t know what kind of a face I was making back then. I was born blind, you see,” she said, giving her head a small nod and her face a slight smile. Vikram could only raise his eyebrows. He hadn’t expected that. After a couple of seconds had passed, the woman’s smile widened.

“It’s me who has done the upsetting this time!” she said, chuckling.

“No, not at all! It’s just that…”

“Just that you’ve never talked to a blind person and didn’t think I was blind, right?” she said. Vikram cast his eyes to the ground and nodded. Realizing that she couldn’t see him nod, he looked up and said yes. It made him feel a lot worse than nodding.

“It’s alright, don’t beat yourself over it,” she said, smiling again. Vikram shook his head and smiled to himself.

“It’s a shame you can’t see what a lovely smile you have. It’s rare to see an adult smile like that these days.” Vikram’s words stretched her lips further, much to his delight. “Do you live around here?” he asked. She nodded. “Is it fine if I walk you home?”

“You don’t have to. I can make find my way.”

“I didn’t say that out of obligation or courtesy. I know that would be rude. It’s just that I would like to,” he said. She remained silent for a few seconds before smiling and nodding again.

Vikram matched her pace as they walked down the deserted street. It was a particularly quiet night. Not a single dog barked, much to Vikram’s surprise.

“How did you know I recognized the look on your face because I wear it myself from time to time?”

“People recognize things like sadness and hurt only if they’ve experienced it themselves. It draws their attention. Some come to help, some maybe not.”

“Yeah. ‘When the fox hears the rabbit scream he comes a runnin’, but not to help’,” said Vikram. The woman brightened up.

“Hannibal Lector! I mean, Thomas Harris, wasn’t it?”

“Yes,” said Vikram, surprised. “How did you�"“

“My sister read it to me. She’s been living with me ever since she divorced her husband a few years ago. I should rather say I live with her! She loves reading and quite often reads to me. She never misses reading anything to me that has a blind character. One of Thomas Harris’s books had such a character, and I liked it, so I asked her to read me the rest of them as well. My eyes don’t work, but my ears do,” she said. Vikram grimaced and kicked himself for asking the question.

“Why do you ask her to read you books with blind characters?” asked Vikram after a few seconds.

“It’s amusing at times to see how flawed people’s perceptions can be. When they get it right, it’s refreshing to see that people can understand others and depict things correctly. I like keeping a track of both those things. It’s not always refreshing, I can tell you that!”

“I can imagine,” said Vikram, still shaking his head over his previous comments. “So, what do you do?” he asked.

“There aren’t many lines of work I can get involved in,” she said. Vikram shut his eyes and frowned again, cursing himself for being so careless and inconsiderate. The woman’s eyes widened as she said so. “I don’t mean because of my handicap! It’s just that I’m not much good at most things. I can’t even cook, though it’s pretty easy. That’s one of the reasons why my sister lives with me. She hates it when I order food,” she said, frowning like a little girl. Her innocence and pristineness swept Vikram off his feet. “As for your question, I teach music.”

Vikram lifted his face to look at her. “What do you teach?”

“Wind instruments mostly. I have a keyboard and a guitar as well, but I don’t give lessons for them. I play the flute most often, and that’s what I teach.”

Vikram only nodded and kept looking at her. She smiled after a few seconds. She knew that he was looking at her, and it surprised as well as delighted Vikram that he could make a woman of her beauty blush. She stopped after taking a few more steps.

“That’s me,” she said, pointing to the house beside her. It wasn’t huge but large enough to house a family of four. The sodium lamp on the street illuminated the small garden and patio with its dull luminescence. The brown brick wall and the stone floor looked cosy under the light.

“Do you live around here?” she asked.

“Yes. I live on the street we met. I’ve lived there for years, though not consistently for any length of time.”

“That might be why I’ve never heard of you. You seem to be famous, and since you were walking there at this time of the day I thought you must live around here as well. I was wondering how come I never heard of you.”

“Yeah. I don’t have any relatives here and never talked to anyone in the locality. My family has been abroad for two generations now, but I bought this property long ago. I like it here.”

“Ah, so you did the opposite,” she said. Vikram wrinkled his eyebrows.

“How do you mean?”

“People in India usually go abroad to get away from their relatives. You did the opposite,” she said. It made Vikram laugh. “I’ll ask my sister if she has anything you’ve written.”

“No, they’re not that good,” said Vikram.

“I think they would be. Not all good writers are good people, but all good people are good writers if they make it their profession.”

Vikram chuckled. “I wouldn’t know about that!”

“Alright. If she doesn’t have anything you’ve written so far, and you think they’re not that good, then I’ll leave it be. I’ll just ask her to get me the next thing you write.”

The words stung Vikram more viciously than a steaming hot dagger piercing through his skin. He could only sigh.

“No, you don’t have to.”

“It’s not out of obligation or courtesy. It’s just that I would like to,” she said. Her words drove away the dark clouds that had suddenly emerged on Vikram’s face. He thanked her silently.

“It was lovely meeting you, Miss….?”

“Malini,” she said with a nod.

“It was lovely meeting you, Malini,” he said. He smiled at her and walked away. She lifted the door latch noiselessly. The only sound he could hear was the soft rustling of her earrings as she walked. Vikram knew he was in for another sleepless night.

 

3

 

 

 

 

It had started raining a short while after Vikram got up the next morning. He had only had a couple of hours of sleep and his head felt heavy. The weather helped him deal with it better. He had always found rain soothing. It wasn’t a typical Mumbai downpour. The signs of rain had been there for a while, and the shower wasn’t thunderous. It was a welcome change for Vikram.

His housekeeper had arrived just before it had started to rain. Vikram had to convince her to let him beat his cup of coffee, and she was aghast when he offered to beat coffee for her as well. She had protested energetically but surrendered when Vikram said he’d let her heat the milk and add it to the paste. He liked beating his coffee. It had to be the right colour or it wouldn’t taste good.

When it started raining he sat on his armchair. He threw the window wide open to let the wind rush in. He planted his feet on the window sill and sipped the coffee as the wind blew his curly grey hair. His hair had stopped growing before getting too long. They were slightly longer than most people his age, but it wasn’t a length that annoyed him. Since his hair were curly, they kept his forehead and nape relatively free. His long legs and arms weren’t covered by much hair either, and his beard grew slowly as well. He was glad he didn’t have to shave or visit the barber too often.

A few drops grazed his toes lightly as he listened to the serene rain and the sound of his housekeeper slurping her coffee next to him. She sat on the floor with her knees pulled up to her bosom while holding the cup with both hands.

She was different than other maids and housekeepers in that she had graduated from school. Despite being in her early twenties, she wasn’t married. She only worked at his house from morning till evening. She cooked what he told her and how he told her, and did whatever she could to fill her day. The only thing that had prompted Vikram in employing her was his inability to write. Vikram had never realized how many signatures and day to day scribbling are involved in life. She signed for him whenever required.

“Don’t you feel lonely when it rains and there’s no one else in the house?” she said all of a sudden. Vikram was taken aback by her question but gave it a thought.

“Rain can make people melancholic, but some people like it. As for loneliness, I’m not sure.”

“You should have visitors from time to time. Why don’t you ever have visitors?”

“It’s not like I never have visitors. You haven’t worked here even for a month. How would you know?”

“I’ve seen enough to know,” she said, taking another long slurp from her coffee and nodding to herself. Vikram continued looking at her for a few more seconds before turning towards the window again. “You should have people visit your house from time to time. It makes you feel less lonely and happier when it rains. Rain and Mumbai go hand in hand. To be happy here, you should have visitors, otherwise the rain will drive you away,” she said.

Vikram looked at her again. She never moved her eyes from the window. He wondered if the rain brought back painful memories from her past. He decided not to ask and soak some of the loneliness that the rain showered on her. 

Vikram felt like writing something after spending a good half hour sitting there. He always felt like writing whenever it rained. His fingers would start twitching with excitement as soon as he would see the sky turn grim with grey clouds.

He thought about writing the story he had in his mind. He instinctively reached for his drawing book and pen. He had never liked lined notebooks or registers, and notepads were too small for his purpose. Drawing books offered him the best of both. He picked up the book and pen out of habit, but reality kicked in the moment he flipped it open. The poorly shaped characters and disoriented words presented themselves bashfully. His grip on the pen strengthened until his entire hand started shaking. He thrust the pen into the book and threw it away in disgust.

Vikram closed his eyes and tried piecing the story together. If he could form a streamlined plot he could ask someone to do the writing. But years of habit rendered the effort fruitless. He had always had the habit of writing down ideas. But that was also a problem now. He tried penning his ideas into single words which would help him recall them easily, but that was too difficult a task. The mind doesn’t always think in the same manner. There’s a certain flow that directs thoughts, and without that flow it’s near impossible to remember those exact thoughts. Vikram had always achieved the feat by writing down promising ideas whenever they flashed in his mind. The ideas still came to him, but he was losing the ability to express them. He had always walked with them, talked with them. They talked to him still, but now he was stationary while they kept moving. All he could retain were fragments of what he heard.  

Vikram tried getting some writing done the entire day. He delved deep into his patience reserves and tried making his hands remember their usual nature. But his hands screamed the nature of their present predicament and told him how the situation was.

After the first few hours, he thought of writing something for Malini. It wasn’t one of his usual notes. He knew she couldn’t read, and even if she could, he didn’t want her to see his messy handiwork. Asking someone else to write it for him was out of the question. The only thing he could do was write a short story which he could read to her. More than giving him an excuse to see her, it seemed like the right way to go about things.

The next day was the same in all regards. Vikram had to check the date on a few occasions to confirm it was a different day. He was even afraid that he was sleeping and dreaming about the same day again. He pinched himself a couple of times but stopped doing so when his housekeeper eyed him suspiciously. Vikram’s exasperation only increased. He even toyed with the idea of asking his housekeeper to put the words on paper before dismissing it. He was desperate.

The clear skies on the third morning gave him a ray of hope. But his hands were no good. The weather was pleasant but his mood was in stark contrast. Vikram realized the only way to get over it was to go and see Malini without the story. He spent all day hunting for the harmonica he had bought two years ago. His housekeeper tried helping him on many occasions but she just couldn’t understand what he was looking for. It was like explaining what a colour looked like.

He inspected the harmonica for a while on finding it. He blew into it to see what kind of sounds it could produce. The expressions on his housekeeper’s face and the complaining from his ears were evidence enough of his skill, or rather the lack of it. He didn’t mind it, though. He quickly took a shower, put on his blue cotton shirt and brown trousers, and walked out the yard and the gate.

He could hear the sound of a flute being played almost as soon as he turned towards her street. At first, he thought he was imagining it, but when it got louder he realized that it was really the sound of Malini’s flute. There were people and vehicles moving about the road, but her flute managed to push its music through the gaps. It didn’t have to wiggle. It simply strolled through leisurely.

It was a beautiful sound, one that he had never heard before, but one that he felt he knew and was dear to him. It was like a lullaby. It doesn’t matter if someone hasn’t heard a particular lullaby. It always takes them back to their early childhood and reacquaints them with a warmth they never knew resided in their soul. Malini’s flute had the ability to draw out that warmth. Vikram didn’t even notice he was smiling the entire time he was walking to her house.

His smile vanished when he rang the bell and someone else appeared from the house. Even if Malini hadn’t told him, Vikram would have known this person was her sister. She was much shorter than Malini - who was almost as tall as himself - but the similarity in their faces was remarkable. They weren’t twins, but they shared a lot more facial data than most siblings.

As Vikram stood there amazed by their likeness, Malini’s sister stood with a question in her eyes.

“Helloooo, what do you want?” she said, waving at him. Vikram snapped out of his trance.

“I’m sorry. I’m here to see Malini.” Her sister raised her eyebrows to ask why. Vikram fumbled with his hands and produced the harmonica from his pocket. He pointed towards it and nodded. He wondered why they were communicating without speaking, but he didn’t think too much about it.

She folded her arms and scrutinized him. Vikram was aware she was deciding whether to allow him in. She could see that he didn’t want to see Malini just because he wanted music lessons. Women have a perception of such things that far exceeds men’s. Vikram knew she was divorced and wondered whether her suspicion of him had something to do with that. He had seen that in some women. But he could tell that her scepticism arose out of sisterly love. Only an elder sister can act like that. He stood still for her inspection. She approved him with a firm nod.

Malini stopped playing the moment he entered. Her long and thin fingers held it delicately but covered those holes perfectly. She was wearing a white top and a blue and green long skirt with mirror work done on it. She stood up and took a step in his direction. Her skirt added another rustling sound to her gait.

“Someone’s here to see you,” said her sister.

“Hello, Malini,” said Vikram. She smiled.

“He says he’s here to learn the harmonica,” said her sister. Malini nodded.

“Does he look like he’s here to learn the harmonica?” she asked. Her sister threw a glance at Vikram before smiling.

“No,” she said. The two sisters laughed gaily as Vikram stood there embarrassed. Malini’s sister patted his shoulder before going over to her, continuing to laugh all the while. Vikram realized her earlier behaviour had just been an act to intimidate him.

“If you really want to learn the harmonica, I will teach you. But if you want to spend time with me, you’ll have to read me some of your works,” said Malini when she had caught her breath.

“I’m afraid I don’t have any book of yours. I have heard of you, though. I’m Varsha, by the way. I’d love for you to read us something as well. It’ll be nice to have someone read to me for a change!” said her sister. Vikram could only chuckle nervously. He stood there uncomfortably for a few seconds before pocketing his harmonica and turning away.

“I’ll be right back,” he said. He knew he had some of his books stowed away in his house. He didn’t mind going back to fetch something. He wore the same smile as he walked out as when he had walked to her house.

 

4

 

 

 

 

 

Vikram spent his evenings at Malini’s for the next month. He would go there when she was done giving lessons. He would then read to the sisters. They always sat in the living room or in the patio if the weather was pleasant. The house had two rooms but Vikram had only ever seen the living room. It was rather large and had a set of small mattresses lined in one corner where Malini gave her lessons. A sofa set and coffee table occupied the main area, and the rest was empty space. The lack of furniture didn’t look like the result of poor interior planning. It separated the dining table from the sofa set.

After the first few days he started spending time with Malini once he was done reading to them. Varsha hadn’t objected to it, but there was a hesitance in Malini’s manner whenever they were alone. They would often go out for a walk at night. Vikram noticed how Malini would always bring something up to talk about, careful not to let any silence creep between them. It helped them tell each other everything about themselves.

Malini told him about her childhood. Her mother had passed away giving birth to her, and her father had died from a heart attack a few years ago. He used to teach economics at a university and had home schooled Malini. She owed her practical and reasoning mind to her father, while she owed her creativity to her sister. She had read to her since as long as she could remember.

Vikram told her about his life and even bared the details of his recent troubles. He even told her how he had to hire a housekeeper just to sign for him on routine household bills and packages. Listening to him talk about it made her feel dejected. She understood how integral writing was to Vikram and he had nothing outside of it. He had found purpose quite early in his life, something that takes people years, but he was now unable to fulfil it. She had spent her life adjusting to the disability she was born with, but she had never felt helpless. Listening to him talk, she realized how miserable he felt. His voice suggested an outward appearance that didn’t match his words. But Malini’s handicap had always helped her identify the underlying emotions and feel what the other person was going through. It saddened her to listen to him talk about it.  

Malini said she had never wanted to be like other people or be treated normally. Her definition of normal differed from that of others and she had never tried mixing the two. The only thing that made her feel cheated was her inability to see facial expressions. She could understand anyone’s state of mind by the tone of their voice, but not being able to see facial expressions was the only thing she had to complain about.  

She told him how she was afraid of the dark. Vikram tried asking her what she meant by it in the least offensive manner. Her idea of darkness was not having anyone around. She could always sense the presence of those around her, but when she didn’t sense anything she felt frightened. It was then that she would hum to herself. As she saw it, darkness was the lack of light, and she associated light with life. Lack of light meant lack of life, which was why she was afraid of it.

“You’d think it strange, for my world is enveloped in darkness,” she had said. Vikram hadn’t known what to say. “But I’ve always considered myself an empty shell, you know. Without my eyes, I have to rely on the words of others for the appearance of things. Sure, I can feel the shapes and surfaces with my hands, but it’s not enough to paint a vivid picture. In that sense, I feel like a machine. I’m fed data which I can’t always confirm myself.”

She had said all that casually, as if telling someone her address. She wasn’t complaining but simply stating the facts. It hurt him all the same, though. She wasn’t a distraught person, but there was something lacking in her.

Vikram had always considered people to be either light emitters or reflectors. He knew that Malini was an emitter, but she had never been able to kick the source of her light into action. Vikram considered himself a philosopher and an intellectual, but he knew he was a reflector. He wanted to trigger the source of her light and be its reflector. From that point on he put himself to the task. He figured out the way when he found her reading a magazine written in braille.

Vikram wasted no time in getting a braille slate and stylus. He then spent all the time he wasn’t with Malini to learn braille. He didn’t have anything else to do and there was no one to disturb him. His housekeeper watched him but didn’t say anything. She would just sit under the window, watching him rack his brains all day. He ate little and didn’t complain if she cooked something he didn’t particularly like.  

Vikram continued going there when he finished reading his novel to Malini and Varsha. He tried learning the harmonica but he just couldn’t control his breathing. It came naturally to Malini, though, as the words came naturally to him.

When he saw her play he wondered if he was taking advantage of her.

She was an unusually gentle soul, but her blindness made people uncomfortable near her and she didn’t have any friends. Her students were the only company she had other than her sister. Vikram knew he was in love with her, but he wondered if it was wrong, because he knew she had started to be dependent on him. She didn’t need his support, but he knew she looked forward to meeting him every day. He wondered if he was taking advantage of that by asking her to love him so that she could continue seeing him.

He thought a lot about it, but in the end, decided to go forward with his plan. He realized love was a selfish thing. One doesn’t love anyone for the sake of the other but for their own peace and happiness. All the acts of love only strengthen that feeling. But it fit with the way he had lived his life. He had never sought to work for the sake of others. He had only ever worked for his own benefit, but he had always done so in a manner where he wasn’t hurting anyone or taking something that was someone else’s by right. He had just lived by his principles and values. Love, as he saw, was something along the same lines.

He was determined to learn braille and write something for Malini. He was taking the same path he had taken for charming many women before, but this time it was different. He had never had to make any effort before. This time, he wanted to make that effort. This time, he was actually frightened of what would happen if things went wrong.

Vikram had taken Malini out to dinner a couple of times. He had been wary of doing so at first, but he felt he would insult her by not asking. She had consented immediately, and their two dates had worked out pretty well. Varsha had stopped being near them when he visited. She didn’t go out of her way to leave them alone, but Vikram could see that she was giving them their space.

 

Despite his constant and industrious effort, it took Vikram a little over two months to get really comfortable with braille. He could now write without having to consult the correct notation for each letter, punctuation, or combination, and his writing was accurate. Malini and Varsha were supposed to visit their aunt in Nasik over the weekend, and Vikram spent those two days glued to his desk. It felt ironic to him that he would write the most important thing in his life only when he had lost the ability to write.

 

 

5

 

 

 

 

When Vikram handed her the letter the day after she returned, he saw a look of disbelief on Malini’s face. He hadn’t said anything but just placed the letter in her hand. Her hands had felt the dotted impressions immediately, but her mind was taking its time believing it. She passed her hand over the sheet of paper and sat down without a word.

Vikram watched her both keenly and apprehensively as her fingers traced the characters slowly. Varsha had joined them a minute later but she had frozen in space when she saw the two of them. She knew what was happening before she saw her sister read something she had never read herself. She had seen it in his eyes.

When she was halfway through, Malini turned her face slightly to the right but continued tracing the characters. She didn’t want to obscure Vikram’s feelings with her tears. Varsha cupped her mouth to prevent herself from crying out loud while Vikram felt his heart beating at a frenetic rate. His heart beat even faster as he saw Malini continue moving her fingers despite their shaking.

By the time she was done reading, Malini was crying freely. She covered her eyes with one hand and turned away, keeping the other hand fixed on the paper. Vikram could do nothing but watch her as she let the tears flow. His own vision started to blur as Malini outstretched her free hand towards him. He didn’t take it but went down on his knees and embraced her.

“But…but it would have taken you so long… to learn….to write this!” she said.

“Two months to learn braille, two days and two nights to write this,” said Vikram.

“Your hands….they must….they must have hurt!” she said amidst her flurry of tears.

“It didn’t hurt, Malini. It took me two days to write this, but not because of my bum hands. I wrote the entire thing in an hour. The rest of the time I was just sitting there thinking about you. For the first time in my life, I could see all the words before my hand moved. It is the first time my first draft is the final draft.”

She didn’t say anything but tightened her arms around him and sobbed even more uncontrollably. Vikram couldn’t help but chuckle. It turned into laughter. The tears flowed through his eyes but he laughed.

“But I won’t be able to sign anything for you! You’ll still have to depend on your housekeeper!” said Malini.

“It’s alright. She’s not that bad to have around,” said Vikram.

“But why would you like someone like me?”

“Love someone like you.” She dug her face deeper into his shoulder blade and flooded it with her tears.

“Why someone like me?” she implored.

“Because there’s no one like you,” replied Vikram. “You’re not an empty shell. You have so much inside you that you cannot resonate with the outside world. But if you’ll allow me, I can help bridge that gap. I’ll always be with you, reflecting the bright light you have within you. You can keep humming, though. It’s the sweetest sound in the world.”

She let go of him and wiped her tears after a couple of minutes. She then passed her hand over the letter again before tracing Vikram’s face with it.

As his eyes stopped welling up with tears, he felt a clarity he had never felt before. This is what it feels like to be loved by someone you love, he thought to himself. His hands had abandoned their support for his writing, but his mind had attained a lucidity that negated his problem. He needed to lose something to get something of greater value. Noel had said that he would find a way to get around things when he stopped obsessing over it. Vikram understood the meaning behind his words then.

Writing was his purpose in life, and his hands had been the tools to fulfil that purpose. He had always believed he excelled in fulfilling his purpose because of the tools he was bestowed with. Until that day, the words had always presented themselves to him, but there was always a distance. He had chased after them with his surgeon-like hands. He never realized when he had begun depending on them more than he ought to have.

But now the words stood by him and sat next to him. They walked with arms over each other’s shoulders. By spending time with Malini, he realized that just because he was robbed of interacting with the world through one channel didn’t mean he had lost the faculty altogether. 

Author's Note

Is this something that can be called a work of 'Literary fiction'? An opinion, whether detailed or general, about the story and the writing, is most welcome, but I want to know if this fits the bill for a Literary Fiction story. Thanks!

Reviews

[550AU]

It's intriguing and unique. I like the varied cast of characters, and some clever prose. For criticism, I'd say the last paragraph is a bit odd. It's kind of jarring to have it all explained so plainly at the end like that. Otherwise, I enjoyed it. Thanks for sharing.

[Agyani]

Thank you for your insight. I see the point you are trying to make, and I think you're right. I'll make some changes to it. Thanks again!

[Rhayne]

I've read your story and I've read the reviews. I thoroughly enjoyed this story. I know you intend it to be fiction, but I would bet that somewhere in the world Vikram lives under a different name and he has a best friend who tries in his quirky way to comfort him and encourage him. Your concept could definitely be someone's reality and they should read this. I thought the conversations were well thought out and the 'back and forth' as one of your critics put it, I thought was very real and built your characters. I find myself jotting down things I hear at random just to get a feel of what spontaneous conversations are like between people, real conversations, not planned words to have only the purpose of explanation or description right out the gate. I wasn't confused at all with your beginning, middle or end. It kept me hooked, even to the point that I got a little upset with my grown son when he interrupted my reading to help him with something. That something could've waited a few more minutes! I loved the words you used, especially those that described emotion or facial expression, like 'knitting his brow' and 'boisterous blue eyes'. Little things like that stand out to me. Not once was I lost or confused. I thought it had great flow and even though I knew Vikram and Malini would eventually come together, the steps it took him to get there and the condition she gave him to agree to, to spend time with her, well, even if it had of been on film, we wouldn't have had to waited months on end for Vikram to learn brail. No doubt it would have been a brief few shots of him practicing and then viola, success! I liked the ending. As I read the words and comprehended them, I was still reeling and smiling from the emotion the three characters had as love bloomed. You are very talented and I, for one, will be reading more of you. I'm new to THIS site and have noticed that Poetry rules here and I'm no Poet. I write stories, maybe not as good as yours and many others here, but that's why I'm here. Friends and family just can't be objective enough, yet here, LOL, it can get brutal too. Ironically, it's the very reason I joined. The stings, the 'you better sit down for this' and the 'well, you asked' are exactly what I need, not only for my writing but for my attitude as well. I scream into pillows and then get over it, take the advice and try to apply it. I need it, you, not so much, I think.

[R.J.A.Gilbert]

I would consider it literary fiction, though that definition seems to be polymorphous these days. As a window into a writer's life and into life in Mumbai it definitely meets the requirements.

[barleygirl]

This is definitely Literary Fiction. What makes it literary is the way you use your storytelling talents to convey universal truths about life & love. Your lessons go beyond the main one about finding the thing we crave as soon as we stop obsessing over it. There are a million other supporting life lessons thru-out. The most impressive thing about your writing is the way you do dialogue. Your characters converse in deep & philosophical ways, yet also conversational. Your characters discuss things a few steps beyond what typical people would do, in order to fully convey whatever ideas & lessons you are trying to impart. Each bit of conversation is taken a little further than most people would take it & I admire all the ways you pack it with meaning & details. It's a strange sensation to read a story that feels so professional & then see your author-note question, as if you don't even realize how good this is (((HUGS))) Fondly, Margie

[Agyani]

Hey Margie
Wow, I wasn't expecting this. It's such a delight to read this review! I'm so happy you pointed out the thing about the way I write conversations. I started focusing on them a lot ever since I read Oscar Wilde's works. He was a genius, and he carried the stories through his conversations. While I try to make them meaningful and driving, I also try to ensure I don't make it stilted, as if the characters talk that way just so they can feel intellectual!
I'm still in the wee hours of my life as a writer, but being here at the Cafe is a great way to propel myself onward. I've already learned so much from stories I've read and people who've reviewed me. Again, thank you so much not just for your kind words but for giving this a read. It's a rather long story to read, even more so on a screen, so I really am grateful! :D

[barleygirl]

It's remarkable how your conversations are so astute & philosophical but not sounding hoity-toity. That's the exact thing I wanted to compliment you on.

[Agyani]

I'm really happy you feel that way. Thank you :)

[Gypsy Warrior Queen]

To be anything you want to be eh? I think you may have been born to be a writer! The term holler at me...such a southern voice..Great tools here...hands, ears, and sight.

[Agyani]

Haha, I'm pleased to know that you liked it, and thank you so much for your words.
I didn't really know holler at me is something one associates with the south of USA. I just wrote that because it seemed synchronous with what I wanted to say. Thanks for telling me!

[Mika Franolich]

Hi! So, I'm going to put the good first.
Noel strikes me as a rare sort of man. Not many admit their mistakes and then certainly not easily, but he was ready to consider that he was perhaps insensitive or lackadaisical when addressing people with names that would be considered strange by native-American speakers standards. For that I have immediate respect for him.
Vikram seems like a sagacious man and is also a strong character. I think your decision to make an inability to connect with people his principal flaw was a brilliant one. It suits his analytical, meticulous nature.
You cover all possible loose ends of your story: What is the condition that caused Vikram to lose his ability to write, why couldn't he just type any stories that came to mind, so on and so forth.
You have good character dialogue, though I would perhaps keep in mind that the intention of dialogue should always be to progress the story. You do a pretty good job of that though there are a few moments that could use some redirecting.

The moments that struck me as strange: Vikram attributes his skills in writing to his hands (in that part that talks about his physician's hands). They may be the tool with which he expresses his thoughts to the world, but those thoughts are a product of his mind.
There is also a question of when all this is taking place, as you mention that he was born in an age before the typewriter and laptop and became accustomed to writing without them yet further on in the piece it is mentioned that not only do computers exist, but the Microsoft applications do as well. Typewriters were invented somewhere in the 1800's, and computers and Microsoft word didn't come into creation until late in the 20th century, so I can't see how this could be possible. Thorough research is paramount to the writing process. Otherwise you'll leave your readers confused and break them out of the grips of the story as they try to puzzle through any contradictions or abstruse moments. I would also be weary of diction. Vikram must be archaic, and, "I always used writing to woo women into going out and sleeping with me," doesn't strike me as something someone born in the late 1800's- early 1900's would say. Woo, yes. "Going out" no. "Sleeping with me" eh, perhaps. There are instances of this throughout the story and they become most prevalent whenever Vikram is speaking to the boy who wants his autograph.

[Agyani]

Hi.
Thank you for your comment.
I think you misunderstood the setting of the story. It is set in the present, and your incorrect conclusion is perhaps due to not being familiar with culture in India.
The age of computers, in India, didn't come before the turn of the decade, or maybe the mid 1990's. When I say age without computers I mean he was born when computers weren't being used in most households in India. Maybe I should change the words a bit to clarify this in the story. But computers didn't become common in Indian households until a couple of decades ago.
As for typewriters, I've written that he never liked the monotonous clicking of typewriters. How can that be taken as he was born before typewriters? It simply means he never liked the sound typewriters made.

The rest of the things you mentioned about the language, well, that's again due to the incorrect conclusion about the time the story is set in. But it's alright.

I'd love to know what you think about the rest of the story though. I know you'd give me your unfiltered opinion, which is the best thing a writer can get. :)

[Mika Franolich]

Ah, I see. Yes, that does clarify a few things, I was evaluating this based on American culture and our timeline of technological development ^.^ I will therefore retract what I said about the language- Vikram is as verbose and appropriately spoken as anyone could hope from a character!
I went back and, as it turns out, I did misread the line concerning typewriters. For that I apologize; I am human, we are known to make mistakes.

I thought your ending wrapped everything up neatly. The best relationships are those where the couple have no illusions about each other. That mutual understanding creates a bond so raveled nothing can undo it. That they both understand and strengthen each other and that you so successfully wrote two compatible characters who are, at the same time, so distinguishable from one other was a masterful stroke. As a writer there are small things that I would seriously question, such as him so quickly grasping grail, which I've heard is difficult to learn. Aside from little snippets such as that, now that you have kindly clarified everything for me that I mentioned in my prior post, this is an excellent piece ^.^

[Agyani]

Thank you for responding to my comment. The thing about Braille....well, perhaps you are right. I don't really know how long it'd take anyone to learn it.
Vikram, like you said in your last comment, is shrewd and sensible, and he is also driven by the strongest driving force to learn Braille. That, together with the free time he has (being a writer, you can choose how much time you devote to anything!), might help him get a grip on Braille much sooner. But how soon would that be? Is it correct to assume it could be taken in a couple of months or so? I might be wrong. I should have looked more closely into it. Thanks for bringing it to my attention!

[JayG]

Oh my, you are going to hate me. But you did ask, so…

What you’re doing in the opening is lobbing dialog back and forth, like a softball. One character speaks. Then the other one does, and that continues. No one stops to think, rephrases, hesitates, or even scratches themselves or looks out the window. For the rest, you, the narrator, are explaining things to the reader—reporting when you should be involving and entertaining.

How real can that be to a reader? As the story opens, we don’t know where they are, who they are as a people, what they are to each other, or what’s caused them to have the conversation. It's like passing by an open window and hearing people you know nothing about, talking about things for which you have no context. It's data, yes. But is it story? Does it inform or entertain? That matters because we read fiction to be entertained.

Look at the opening as a reader, who knows none of the background, must:

• “It’s strange that you can’t write anymore,” said Noel.

It appears that the unknown person being spoken to by Noel has writer's block. Or, lost the use of their hands.. You know, but as they read this, the reader doesn’t, so "can't write." can mean an infinity of things.

Is that what you intended—to confuse the reader? No. But given that the reader has no idea of what prompted the statement or what it refers to, it is what you said—from the reader’s viewpoint. Remember, your words make the page, but not your intent. Context must come as, or before, the words are read, because only you begin reading already knowing the characters, the location, and the situation.

• “It sounds worse since I’m a writer!” said Vikram.

Didn’t you really mean it IS worse because this person writes?

A minor suggestion: had you used Vikram's name in the opening line, we would know who's being spoken to as part of the opening. And had you opened with:
- - - - -
Noel shook his head sadly, as he touched his friend's arm and said, "It seems so...so strange, that the stroke left you unable to write, Vikram. So..." He waved his hand, helplessly, unable to finish the thought.

Vikram's mouth twisted. "More then strange for a writer, Noel. As a writer, my hands, and my ability to write are what I am." He breathed a long sigh before adding. "And without them, what am I?
- - - - -
Your characters? No. Nor is it great writing. But look at the differences.

1. We learn who's in conversation immediately, and the mood of the one speaking. Then we learn of the issue being discussed. And finally, we learn a bit of the speaker's character and relationship to the other character.

2. We immediately learn Vikram's emotional response to the statement, which he amplifies in a way that tells us who he is as a person, and how he feels about the result of the stroke. So we've had two paragraphs, only a total of 74 words, which is the first page on a standard manuscript submission, and we've learned who's speaking, what they are to each other, and what Vikram's reaction to the stroke, emotionally, is.

And of more importance, no one has explained that to the reader, they notice it as they observe the conversation because it's the complete conversation. Were this a film we'd get mode and nuance through tone, facial expression and body language. But since the page has neither sound nor picture, we must present it in other ways—ways not covered in our school days because they're unique to the profession of writing fiction.

My point is that a lot of the story—parts the reader needs—remains in your head because you’re missing the tricks of the fiction-writing trade. They’re not part of the writing skills we learn in school because only fiction writers need them. And that means you’re trying to use the nonfiction skills we’re given, to write fiction—an impossible task, made worse by the fact that we’re not told that we learn only nonfiction skills (remember all those reports and essays, and how few stories we were assigned to write). So not knowing the problem exists, and believing that writing is writing, and we have that taken care of, we don’t recognize the problem as being a problem.

But that’s fixable, and something we all face when we turn to recording our stories. So, head for the local library’s fiction-writing section and dig in. It can be a huge resource, and you’ll find the views of all kinds of writing pros there for the taking. It will make a big difference, and make the creation of scenes, and sewing them together, a LOT easier.

Hang in there, and keep on writing.

Jay Greenstein
https://jaygreenstein.wordpress.com/category/the-craft-of-writing/

[Agyani]

Thank you for the review, Jay. I see the point you are making. I made the beginning in this manner because I wanted to give everything head-on and then give the reader the context of the sudden conversation once they've got a jolt (or perhaps a frown of confusion?). It was an idea to grab the attention from the onset. The way you rephrased the opening does give the information and context in a lot less words, but this was something I had intended. I might have been wrong, but it felt right to me.
But again, that might have been because I can see what's going to happen two steps ahead, which can't be said for the reader.

I'll keep your points about reader's context in mind. It makes a lot of sense, and I'll try to put myself in the reader's mind and then rephrase the words so that they take on a better garb.

If you have any other comment about the story or the writing apart from the opening, I'd be glad to read it. Honest and unrestrained reviews are hard to come by!