The Autograph

"It's a beautiful day".
Shankar did not reply. He nodded, wondering when people would stop using such banal cliches for lack of other subjects to keep the conversation going.

"The function won't be long". Manoj's foam-like tones seemed to come from far away. It was unusual for them to talk this way. Usually Shankar did the talking, almost all of it as Manoj listened in silent admiration. From the day he had come to interview Shankar for his college magazine, Manoj had become his student, secretary and dear friend in different stages within a surprisingly short span of time. It was Manoj's gentle persuasion that had induced him to attend the literary meet at the University College.

Shankar Menon was, as his critics described him, a 'Superstar on the literary horizon'. Fame sat lightly on his fragile shoulders. He loved his work with an obsessive passion, and it made him happy that his readers liked it as well. The rest of it -- Colossal royalties, manifold comparisons and interpretations and other such paraphernalia were mere peripherals to him, like the bright-hued wrapping on a pack of coffee. It was enough if the coffee was fresh and had a good flavor -- Why bother about the packing that has mere visual appeal and is discarded almost immediately after procurement?

He was still at heart a university student, full of the charming turbulences of late adolescence that persistently remained in him. Sometimes he felt that Manoj, who was almost 22 years younger to him, was more mature in his outlook and attitude. His tranquil nature and quiet ways had endeared him to Shankar. Yet, Manoj was always a little apprehensive lest he caused his celebrity friend to be inconvenienced in any way and this anxiety caused him to talk more than usual as they drove to the University College.

The reception had been regal, and warm. The function was of high standard for a college meeting. Manoj's sister was one of the speakers (The main reason he had been forced to attend) and he perceived that Anusha Mahadevan was as charming and talented as her brother was. Shankar switched off after the first two speakers. He felt a kind of oneness with any college campus. It was as though he had never left that delightful period of time and held on to it -- reliving it whenever he could and dreaming when he couldn't. Didn't he too belong there? He felt an emotion that was a mixture of nostalgia, regret, disappointment, pride and joy. But one cannot be living forever in the past, especially when one is on the wrong side of forty...

Shankar suddenly realized that he was the topic of the next speaker-- he identified himself with his books. A plain-looking girl with thick spectacles, she spoke of his works with almost the authority of a critic. He felt that she had grasped the essence of what he wanted to convey. It pleased him to hear a comprehensive analysis of his works that had criticism without bias and praise without blind adoration. Surprisingly, most of her quotations from his works were his favorite lines as well.

His reading and the question-answer session passed pleasantly and there was a break for light refreshment. The students crowded around him, as he sipped coffee abstractedly. Shankar smiled mechanically albeit warmly at the enthusiastic young faces surrounding him, seeking autographs and questioning on his writing. He noticed the girl who had lauded him in such a fathoming manner, and stretched out his hand for her autograph. It was an involuntary reflex action. She smiled and shook her head. Shankar was slightly embarrassed in spite of his non-existent ego, and slightly more embarrassed as he reflected that his face could hardly hide his feelings, however diminutive. She walked towards him almost immediately.

The other students had begun to move away, attracted by the announcement that the cultural programs were about to commence.

"You speak to me directly from your books. Why do I need an autograph like a common reader?"
Her sonorous voice was quite different from Manoj's soft baby-tones, but the tone was strikingly similar -- admiring and affectionate. The words struck somewhere within him.
"One minute"
Shankar opened his bag and pulled out a book frantically -- A copy of his latest work. He gave it to her.
"I have a copy, Sir" She looked (and sounded) puzzled.
"It is not for you. Please - Sign it for me." He paused, before adding,
"I would very much like to have my reader's autograph"

"Shanky"
Manoj's symphonic voice came from behind, and he was led to the banquet hall. He turned back once and saw her standing there with his book in her hands, and an ineffable expression on her face.

"It was a real pleasure, Mr. Menon" The principal was saying -- he observed, with a blithe smile on her bulldog-like countenance, as she escorted him to the car. It had been a different occasion for both of them -- His international presence in the homely local college.

As he sat in the car, he felt a strangely familiar presence at the window. His book was placed in his hands. The eyes behind the glass walls smiled for a moment before the vision disappeared. Manoj started the car and they were off.

He opened the book. In the first page a few lines were written in a childish scrawl that was nevertheless neatly legible:

They celebrate you, they rant, they rave
Fame soaks you -- though a frothy wave
It's in all likelihood there to stay
What more may a common reader say?
You speak the language I understand
The mother-tongue of man's heartland
Mirroring thoughts of every kind
That reflects in every mind
Not as a writer -- as a friend indeed
Not your books, It's you I read
From the printed page into a reader's heart
Isn't easy for an author at the start
That's just what you've done, shared soul space
Together we walk common thought - pathways...

Simple words that had a candor about them, in spite of their amateurishness. Shankar read the lines again and again. Life had come full circle within those few lines. The apparitions of long-dead dreams and past failures that haunted him, and tied him to the past seemed to move away. The college was drifting out not only from his line of vision, but also from his perpetual reminiscences of past moments. He had inspired a reader. His reader who understood him and felt his presence. There would be several like her throughout the world. He was constantly communicating with them, sharing thoughts, experiences, ideas -- his writing being the interface. The chance meeting seemed to have a profound effect on his life. He felt exhilarated.

She had not even signed her name. What did it matter when they interacted in the most subtle manner possible? It was truly a 'meeting of souls' as she had written.

"Hope you were not too bored, Shanky"
Manoj sounded anxious. Shankar put his hand on Manoj's arm and pressed it warmly.

"Manu, Most of the time I am happy that I am a writer. But sometimes..."
"Sometimes?"
"Sometimes I feel blessed being one," He said quietly.