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The Writer's Handshake
by Amar Lakshya Pawar (Prose - Short Story) | Published On: 26-Dec-2014

Upon the writing of this unusual story, I have learned and grasped further the motive in the following. When a person, independent of particular profession, finds oneself amidst a situation where the faintest idea of any comradeship seems fruitless, naturally, magnetism to the even fainter practical company seems quite appeasing. Thus, the foretold story shall to the reader bear, some logic and hopefully a few chunks of amusement.

My mother, naturally gifted by the root of her gender, happens to find her solace in a few chores. Amongst which, the notable one, is the tiresome and relatively lengthy act of searching and of seldom buying articles of choice, which she lovingly describes to me as ‘shopping’. Now during the lifetime of this act; I am always faced with a mammoth task. This task in its ferocity, sometimes possess the power to perform the impossible; to fume a ridiculous amount of anger in my spirit. Thus, tending upon my weak cognitive skills I have to safely deduce the right way to escape the scene, which I must report, if chosen wrong, results in an immediate crisis. The battle at hand is fought with nearly every species of armour, chalking out tedious and often perishable tactics, and at last finally and vitally, planning out a few quick escapades. The objective is the most essential thing, to pass my precious time during this ‘shopping’.

Now this hideous task has to be performed, gulping upon every iota of my ever decreasing confidence; in a very specific manner. There could be no careless or trivial loitering, for that strategy very well results in a red face and resolute dark eyes of my mother, presenting such a visage that could make even the devil scream his lungs out. Now the story told, is of one such adventure at shopping.

While my mother shopped furiously, I by accustomed habit and partly by inner impulse happened to enter a bookshop nearby. After an intense reading of some intense titles and acknowledging my financial poverty, I surrendered and at last decided to leave the store. However, upon the last gazing at a book, I encountered that brief moment which plotted quite simply, the entire plot of this tale. As I was about to put the last book down, a group of three bright young people entered the store and ran straight to the bookcase adjacent to my position. Two were women, with youth and all its impishness oozing vividly out of them. They appeared to be engaged in a very integrated talk, which as usual begged the most of my writer’s instincts. All two of them appeared to be praising sincerely some vague victory of the third person which as it happened, slipped from my attention. The third spectacled character of that legion was the one who suddenly now held my wholesome attention, as one of the girls pronounced those magical letters, very delicately assembling themselves into the word ‘writer’. The mystic fog was now over, and sudden attraction mixed with curiosity, hope and energy shone in-front of my eyes.



When extreme and deep thirst is to be quenched from a far away source, all forms of inhibitions die out in complete peace. Maybe, my thirst wasn’t that deep, for the writer stood with the busy company, and I stood with the open book held only to hear my fountain from a distance. My mind raced with options and alternatives and with further alternatives to the former ones. It is these times, when out of just one mere similarity humans species are capable of taking drastic steps and producing mayhem in the process. Amidst these times in my mind, I structured a lesser drastic plan. I formulated a vicious plan of meeting my nemesis in person and to finally if my destiny permits, talk about the luring prospect of him being a writer. The meagre thought of this arrangement succeeding, gave me such wonted joy and pleasure that it in itself propelled my thoughts to succeed in this dangerous venture of mine. The first objective was simple enough, to approach my target in plain sight and under the pretentious cloak of just hearing random sounds, introduce myself as his fellow comrade in the business. Following up from there was just a matter of articulating verbs and consonants upon which I had the complete trust in my function.

The completion of the first task, however, required me to transport myself from my lonely, shady corner to the spotlights of the writer and his fellow intellectual beauties. As I was preparing mentally to move myself physically, a passing thought entered my mind. However, hard ran the processes in my mind, to conjure up a gullible instance of excuse at my rude intrusion, I couldn’t find a way to approach him. At last, when a few ideas came, the prospect of him being inherently analytical as a result of being a writer became apparent and my ideas became not. Morality was not the problem, in my extensive attempt to create an excuse, the idea of creating an excuse became the problem. Thereafter, I found two plausible ways to accomplish this task; one went through the treacherous path of lies and excuses and the other one was plain simple truth. The latter, seemed to give away a specifically different aura. Perhaps again, the reason of him being a writer made me trust in the better moralistic approach. Whatever, the mystic reason might be, finally I decided to move. As I kept the unfortunate book back and proudly started to move my feet towards him, the most surprising incident occurred, my mother funnily enough remembering my retreat, came to pick up her lonely boy from the dull world of books.

Almost in a fashion of crying, she called out my name and almost tripping in-front of my mysterious comrade, I ran towards her. The new order was at once recognized and I was exiled from the bookstore. My mother didn’t bother to talk about my experience while I feared that I had none and the last hope was also very dutifully extinguished by my beloved mother.

A few months later, in the ambiance of a boring flight schedule. I saw a hand stretched out from my fellow spectacled passenger. At that moment, I said to him, “After all, one should never resist a writer’s handshake”.

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Author
Amar Lakshya Pawar

Amar Lakshya Pawar

Written: 5 Stories

Member Since: 24-Dec-2014

Country: India