Living in Two Worlds

Last Sunday, I got a phone call when I was preparing to go to Bhubaneswar, to the site to see my house under construction. It was a woman’s voice. She introduced herself, “I am one of the readers of your stories.”
I was in a different mood, so I could not get at her. I did not react immediately. She understood and explained, “I just finished your story published in SAMBAD’s annual special issue and I wanted to talk to you.”
She was telling about the story seshachithi (the last letter) I had referred to in my blog ‘A Love Story Retold’.
I asked, “Where did you get my phone number?”
I do not usually publish my phone number along with the story in any magazine like other writers do. I cannot always attend to the call if it comes. Normally, I keep my cell phone in silent mode if I am with my boss or in a meeting. If the phone is not in silent mode and I am in a meeting or with the boss discussing something I immediately switch off when it starts ringing. The caller would certainly feel offended and mistake me as haughty and arrogant.
She said, “In fact I had read the story yesterday. I was so moved by the story that I wanted to talk to you. I got your phone number from SAMBAD office. Today I reread the story and just finished it.”
A writer desires his/her writing should be appreciated; he certainly likes to be praised. Her phone call, no doubt, gladdened my heart.
She asked, “Is it from your own life? I mean… an affair of your school…college days?”
I said, “No Ma’am. The main character of the story is an aged person; he is on the verge of retirement or has already retired. But I am not as old as the character in the story. That is a story, a work of fiction, certainly not my story.”
She said, “The story is excellent, especially the way you have ended. It appears as if it’s yours, a real love story. The language is very simple; I have already read it twice.”
Her eloquence in praising made me shy. To change the topic I asked about her. I learnt she was a teacher, working in Charampa, Bhadrak. I thanked her and switched off the cell phone.
I went to Bhubaneswar, argued with the contractor, got irritated for the slow progress of the construction, paid to him his weekly payment, fretted over the increasing cost of construction materials. I returned home hungry, ate a late lunch and slept. A day passed. I forgot the woman caller’s name. I had not also saved her phone number.

Ten years back. My third book, a collection of short stories (Nija batare nije i.e. all are in their own ways) was just published.
I had finished my eating and was about to go to the office when my land phone started ringing. (Then mobile phone was not commonly used and I did not have one). It was also a woman’s voice. She introduced herself in the same way, “I am one of the readers of your stories. I just finished your book.”
“May I know your name?” I asked.
I was pleased to hear a woman’s voice, an admirer of my stories. I wanted to know more about her. But instead of answering my question, she asked, “Do you know the names of all of your readers? Certainly not. So, why should you want to know my name?”
“It’s true; I don’t know all of my readers. I don’t know if I have at all any readers. But all don’t call up me. It is not unusual to be curious to know the person who gives me a ring.”
She laughed, I was amused.
She said, “You need not be curious about me, I shall not tell my name. But I assure, you have a good readership, your stories are liked by many. We, I mean, me and my friends have really enjoyed your book. In fact, we were discussing…”
I said, “Are you a student, staying in a hostel?”
“Don’t be smart… I shall not give any hints…”
“You have already given me hints without being conscious of it.’
“No, you are wrong. Even you assume me a student, staying in a hostel; you don’t know my name, the college or the hostel. Leave it. Please answer my question. Are you the character of your stories? The stories are so lively and beautiful, it seems, the writer is writing his own experience. We thoroughly enjoyed the stories…”
The book, nija batare nije contains fifteen stories. The main character of all the stories is one. His name is Manas. The character is the same in all the stories, but situations and events are different. Different event and situation make a different story with Manas as the protagonist. I asked, “There are two kinds of stories in that book. Some stories give the picture of an organisation, its ugly face and hypocrisy of the persons working for it. The other stories depict the escapades of the main character, Manas; his affairs with women other than his wife, even with married women. Which kind of stories of the book you like?”
She giggled, then took a pause, thought for a few seconds and said, “That’s the beauty of the stories. Your protagonist is an honest, upright and a committed person, but at the same time, he does not bear a moral character in traditional sense of the tern. Very pragmatic, not an ideal type, a true lover, any woman will like.”
I was really tempted to say the character is no one but me. But I said, “I am getting late. Please leave with me your phone number, I shall call you back.”
She said, “No, thank you. I know you are a sincere officer, very punctual and also dedicated to your duty. But I shall not give you my phone number. I shall call you again.”
She hung up the phone.
I went to the office. I was late. My boss had already enquired about me. When I met him he started reprimanding me for a draft. He said, “Is it the way a proposal should be drafted? Sometimes you do without application of mind…. “
The woman caller evaporated from my mind. I am yet to receive her promised second call.
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