“Keep writing like so.”
“Why?”
“Whenever you write I feel as if you are trying to convey your own emotions, something that you might want to say directly but can’t.”
“Nothing like that.”
“So you're telling me that the characters in your story aren’t used by you to express yourself?”
“They are just characters in my story with their own opinions and thoughts. They reflect emotions which are generally felt by people anyway. Don’t think too much of it.” He lit his cigarette, sending a puff of smoke in the air as he smoked … blurring Meera’s face. She smiled and said “Whenever I read your stories I feel as if I know something more about you.”
“That’s what you think and what you think is a misconception.” He stood up and said “Just read what I write, don’t read into what I write. Don’t analyse. You might start thinking of things that don’t even exist.”
That was six months ago. He kept writing, she kept reading his work. Only, she stopped commenting and giving her feedback. And then he didn’t publish anything for four months. Such quietness from someone abuzz made her wonder if everything was right with him. She went to his home that evening.
“I thought you forgot where I lived.”
“Oh shut up! I was just going past and thought …”
“For heaven’s sake Meera!” He laughed out loud “What do you mean by “just going past”? My home isn’t in the middle of a market nor does any of your acquaintances live anywhere near here. Your excuses are just as badly cooked as your food.”
She made a face and said “I just came to look up and see if you’re ok. You haven’t written for some time …”
“Because you read me a lot and I want to save something for myself. If I am left with nothing then you will leave me. Just like we discard a plate when there’s nothing left in it.”
