OF INCOMPLETE NOVELS LOST IN TIME

BY BISWADEEP GHOSH

Have you ever come across somebody with 23 unfinished novels? I have known one such person who, as far as I am concerned, is the biggest waste in the history of Indian writing in English. His ideation is fantastic, and his language even better. But, after he starts a novel, and I have seen him start about a dozen of them, he works on the plot with an enthusiasm that is almost child-like. After finishing some 20-25,000 words, he decides to abandon the idea and move on with something else. "Not happening, man," he grunts disappointedly.

Yes, you are right. He is, kind of, strange. About ten years back, I remember visiting his house when he was between jobs and, therefore, had some time to work on a new novel. In any case, he had been brought down by a speeding three-wheeler, resulting in bruises that were both ugly and visible. To check out how bad the injury was, I went to his place. He opened the door, looked at me through his Gandhian specs, and grinned. "Good to see you. Come on in. I was just about getting a new idea in place," he told me, his eyes glittering such that one became curious.

"It is about this man, you know, a crazy guy trying to discover his true self," he said softly, almost inaudibly. "Is it autobiographical? Then, it should be superb," I replied without making any effort to conceal my sarcasm. "Arey nah," he smiled, adding, "I am planning to call the book Fable of the 23rd century. The protagonist meets with an accident. Since he is a musician, he decides to do something unique. He does not allow the fractured bones to heal completely so that every injured part emanates a different sound once he taps them. That leads to music without any musical instruments, and the real story unfolds thereafter." Before I could ask him anything, he murmured, "I can't tell you what I have in mind of course."

The idea sounded very unusual, and it required special language and insight to turn into an acceptably decent novel. Both the gifts my friend had in plenty, yet I left the house wondering: will he finally finish a novel this time? Six months later, I heard the familiar statement, "Can't, man. Just can't. Am not convinced that it is going to shape up well."

What makes me remember this guy today? About a week ago, I signed a contract to do a book and promptly called him up. "Hey that is so nice," he said, "How many books do you want to write before you die, buddy?" "Has your wife knocked some sense into your head now that you have married? Are you going to finish one book at least?" I asked him. "Yes, I am trying to," he mumbled. "You know what," I almost yelled,"You are seriously incorrigible. You have it in you but won't write. You want to be a Shakespeare without being good enough, and so scared are you of comparisons with better writers that you refuse to finish the novel. Seriously, you are a loser."

After saying that, I hung up. I had screamed at somebody from whom I had learnt so much, which did not make me comfortable at all. But I did not regret what I had done. After all, somebody had to tell him that people like him had no business to sit back and criticise others when they had delivered nothing of consequence in life.