A man who wanted to be great

He was only a boy when he started saying that he was a writer. He wanted others to say that he was a great writer.

He did not do too well in school. One day, when he was fourteen, his father beat him in a fit of drunken rage. He left home and never returned.

He went to Bombay and did odd jobs. At sixteen, he picked up a fight with a street gang. He was badly beaten and barely survived. Soon after, he fell in love with a girl of his neighborhood.

He worked hard to earn money. He ran away with his sweetheart because her family opposed their marriage. He married her.

He started a small business. He became a father. He became rich.

He fell out of love with his wife.

His father died. He refused to attend the funeral. A few days later, he repented, went to his lonely old mother, cried for her forgiveness and promised to come often to meet her.

He fell in love with a young girl. His wife refused to divorce him. He moved in with his girlfriend. His mistress bore him a son and a daughter.

Sometimes, he felt guilty about his absence in his eldest son’s life.

His mother died. He was surprised at his lack of tears. He tried to make himself cry but couldn't.

Close to his forty-second birthday, his doctor asked him to get tested for cancer. He underwent the tests, his heart heavy with the question, “What if?”

He was diagnosed with a rare cancer.

A month later, he shot himself.

*

In each situation of his life, he had weighed its dramatic potential. A narrative voice in his head turned the ongoing chain of events into a story. Many stories formed in his mind each day. But, he did not write them down. “I won’t be able to write it that well right now,” he would tell himself, looking at the task that he was busy with at the moment. “I will write it tomorrow and make it a great story.”

If he did start writing the next day, doubts would come in soon after. “Am I writing well enough? My story has to be outstanding!” He needed to be considered a writer at par with Tolstoy, Chekhov and Premchand. Otherwise, what was the point of writing? The world was teeming with ordinary writers who filled pages after pages that no one even bothered to look at.

He always introduced himself as a writer who was also a businessman. His primary identity was that of a writer, he believed. Sometimes- the frequency increased as the years went by- he felt hollow about calling himself a writer without having any writing to show for it.

“Don’t worry,” he would then cheer himself, “you still have time. Not every great writer started writing in his twenties!”

His restlessness became unmanageable when he turned forty. More than half his life had passed by and he had not written anything! He desperately tried to write a novel about his life so far. It would surely make an interesting read, wouldn’t it? To his shock, the first few pages that he wrote seemed no better than a boring private diary. He put them away.

There were days now when he could hardly breathe, so heavy was the burden of the wasted years on his head. He was more than forty and had written nothing that the world would remember him by. He could not look at himself in the mirror. He felt sure that everybody around laughed at him.

When he was diagnosed with cancer, he became hopeful once more. Stories of people who faced certain death with courage were always well received. He would write a book that would inspire and overwhelm people. People would salute his fortitude, he would become famous and when he died, all national newspapers would publish his obituaries. “What a way to go!” people would marvel. At least through death, he would become a great writer.

He began writing with great enthusiasm. He was thankful for his disease. A rare cancer sounded all the more glamorous. But after a few pages, he found himself thinking, “Am I writing well enough? I must! I cannot afford to go wrong now! This is my last chance!”

He could not write further. He shot himself.