Hello Mr Probable Publisher,
It is funny how there is a 'pub' in publisher -- a spiritual haven. Someday you would be the one who would probably publish my unposted letters. Till such time I wish this somehow reaches you, the fantasy of a little girl. Well, to begin with, it was no other little girl but me, and this ain't any story. But I would narrate it like one for you to buy the fact that I can.
There was a girl, dazed all day in the sole attempt to understand why she should do all the things she is made to do all day. She was made to sit, when she would actually slump, in front of a harmonium and practice the ragas. She was given an ugly hair-cut, typical to boys, closely cropped. She was asked to recite tables when she took a bath. And she was made to understand that "come within tenth" makes one the correct sort. Basically, she had innumerable questions in her mind, and most of it had to do with why did she have to study. Till she found recluse in reading. It began one day when she during the vacations after having done her favourite bit of covering and labelling new copies and old text books -- which were usually hand-downs from someone her mother would know whose daughter would be a senior -- flipped through some stories in the English Book which were interesting. Perhaps it was The Selfish Giant. And with Wilde she encountered her wild side of running away to lands where trespassers were not necessarily prosecuted.
In such books which transported her away from the classroom and strict teachers, she would read things backwards into the jacket -- ISBN no., try to figure out the barcode, and that wonderful page of publisher, printer, price, place and cover designer. She would often desire for her name to be there as author. Author of what, she didn't know, but just someone who gave birth to that story-child. She would long for it, unendingly, unerringly.
Over a period of time she became 'big', and had as a profession the business of education, and came to hate that very page which made up for exasperating bibliographical arrangements. Till one day where she decided to do away with the business bit of writing and write from within the soul, selflessly. It came easy to her -- she typed and clicked on the 'publish button' and things were categorically authorized to her. She was not addicted to it, but in a way it was addictive too.
Mr Probable Publisher, you do understand the power of 'publishing', don't you? Which is why I wouldn't go on to engage in the ceremonious explanation of the same. Let us just say it was a dream for a little girl to see her name on that page of a book and she is today content, virtually. Mr Publisher, would you, after having read this elaborately intense narrative, please turn the virtual to real? I know it has been ages that anyone has written to you, in such a manner. I think, only for this reason, if not the entire epic above, you owe me one.
Thank you Mr Publisher. (I really don't think there is a space for 'Probable' anymore.)
Regards,
K.
It is funny how there is a 'pub' in publisher -- a spiritual haven. Someday you would be the one who would probably publish my unposted letters. Till such time I wish this somehow reaches you, the fantasy of a little girl. Well, to begin with, it was no other little girl but me, and this ain't any story. But I would narrate it like one for you to buy the fact that I can.
There was a girl, dazed all day in the sole attempt to understand why she should do all the things she is made to do all day. She was made to sit, when she would actually slump, in front of a harmonium and practice the ragas. She was given an ugly hair-cut, typical to boys, closely cropped. She was asked to recite tables when she took a bath. And she was made to understand that "come within tenth" makes one the correct sort. Basically, she had innumerable questions in her mind, and most of it had to do with why did she have to study. Till she found recluse in reading. It began one day when she during the vacations after having done her favourite bit of covering and labelling new copies and old text books -- which were usually hand-downs from someone her mother would know whose daughter would be a senior -- flipped through some stories in the English Book which were interesting. Perhaps it was The Selfish Giant. And with Wilde she encountered her wild side of running away to lands where trespassers were not necessarily prosecuted.
In such books which transported her away from the classroom and strict teachers, she would read things backwards into the jacket -- ISBN no., try to figure out the barcode, and that wonderful page of publisher, printer, price, place and cover designer. She would often desire for her name to be there as author. Author of what, she didn't know, but just someone who gave birth to that story-child. She would long for it, unendingly, unerringly.
Over a period of time she became 'big', and had as a profession the business of education, and came to hate that very page which made up for exasperating bibliographical arrangements. Till one day where she decided to do away with the business bit of writing and write from within the soul, selflessly. It came easy to her -- she typed and clicked on the 'publish button' and things were categorically authorized to her. She was not addicted to it, but in a way it was addictive too.
Mr Probable Publisher, you do understand the power of 'publishing', don't you? Which is why I wouldn't go on to engage in the ceremonious explanation of the same. Let us just say it was a dream for a little girl to see her name on that page of a book and she is today content, virtually. Mr Publisher, would you, after having read this elaborately intense narrative, please turn the virtual to real? I know it has been ages that anyone has written to you, in such a manner. I think, only for this reason, if not the entire epic above, you owe me one.
Thank you Mr Publisher. (I really don't think there is a space for 'Probable' anymore.)
Regards,
K.
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1 comment:
I m sure no one had written to a publisher the way u wrote ..... so assertive :)
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