The man who inspired me to write

This is the second unforgettable character in my life …

He was the person who encouraged me to write stories. The Editor of a mystery magazine, his was a one man show. His printing press was bang on the main road just opposite Scottish Church College in Calcutta. I had sent him a story and he published it – it generated a few fan mails which he forwarded to me. That was an inspiration to do better. I did just that – this gentleman and his readers got to like my writings so much that I became one of his band of regular writers. Practically every other month, there would be my story – in the initial stages, it would be at the end of the magazine, and gradually I moved up to the front and even made it to the Puja special issue. That was an achievement because the Puja specials publish only the best of the lot.

Therefore, when I went to meet him in person, I was in for a surprise. I found him in his printing press correcting the proofs – his composer was composing the pages. He welcomed me and as we conversed, his pen kept making those squiggles that convey the meaning to the composer but that appears to be just squiggles to you and me. When he finished, he invited me to come with him to his house. I agreed and walked with him to his one room palace. It was in a narrow lane, a downstairs dark, dingy room with a window for ventilation. He was a bachelor, did his own cooking and had a cat for company. The cooking was passable – after lunch and a bit of rest, we left. The destination was College Street coffee house, the objective was to meet his friends who are into writing and publication.
We maintained a long relationship and due to his encouragement, I moved from mystery short stories to novelettes and even novels – he accommodated these in his special issues. However, one fine day, he wrote to me lamenting that his days are over. The sales were falling, he was unable to break even – there was a spate of newcomers who followed unscrupulous methods. He decided to wind up the magazine. I tried to console him – but my letters remained unanswered. When I visited Calcutta the next time, I went to his house – there was a lock on the door. The neighbors were new and they did not know where he had gone.


Image courtesy wikimediacommons.org

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