The sender was himself a fine poet. I often used to see his poems in magazines. Reading his letter I could not contain my joy and immediately sat down to reply. I do not now recall exactly what I wrote in this flood of emotion. I certainly do remember this much—that from beginning to end the letter was filled with expressions of affection. I have never written poetry or even a prose poem but I adorned my language to the extent that when I reread the letter it gave me the same pleasure I find in poetry. The whole letter was replete with a charming sweetness.
Five days later this esteemed poet’s second letter arrived. It was even more touching than the first. I was addressed as ‘My dear brother!’ and was requested to provide a list of my creative works and the names and addresses of my publishers. In the end came the welcome news that,
My wife holds you in the highest regard. She devotedly reads your works. She was inquiring where your wife came from, how many children you have and also whether you have a photograph of yourself. If you have, please do send it.
I was also asked details of the place where I was born and my genealogy. This letter, and especially the news at the end, sent me into raptures.
This was the first time that I had had the good fortune to hear praise of myself from the mouth of a woman, albeit through her representative. I felt drunk with pride. God be praised! Now even the fairer sex had begun to extol my writing! I replied at once. I expended all the ear-pleasing vocabulary contained in the dictionary of my memory. The whole letter was full of amity and intimacy. I provided an account of my family history. Never could any bard have composed such a paean for his forefathers. My paternal grandfather was the agent of a landowner—I made him the minister of a major princely state. I made my father, who was an office clerk, a manager. And it was a simple matter to turn our small holding into a zamindar’s estate. I could not increase the number of my works but mentioned their importance, the respect they commanded, and their reach in words that disguised my pride with a screen of humility. Who doesn’t know that ‘insignificant’ is generally used to mean the opposite and ‘modest’ is understood to mean something quite different? To praise oneself openly shows a lack of restraint, but through allusive language you can successfully achieve the same end. Anyway, my letter was finished and promptly dispatched into the stomach of a letterbox.
After that I received no reply for two weeks. I had in my letter added a few appropriate remarks from my wife. I had hoped that our friendship would become even more intimate. If only he would write a poem in my praise, then I alone would tower over the literary world! His silence began to cast me into despair. However, I couldn’t write another letter out of fear that the distinguished poet would consider me self-seeking or sentimental.
It was the month of Ashwin, and late afternoon. I could hear the commotion of a Ram Leela performance nearby. I had gone to a friend’s house. A game of cards was in progress. Suddenly a man arrived asking my name and sat down in a chair next to me. I had never met him and wondered who he was and how he had come to be there. My friends looked the gentlemen up and down and exchanged meaningful glances. There was certainly something novel in his appearance—dark-complexioned and squat, his face scarred by smallpox, bare-headed with his hair carefully combed, wearing a plain shirt with a flower garland around his neck, his feet in full boots and in his hand a rather fat book!
Taken aback, I asked his name.
‘They call me Umapati Narayan,’ came the reply.
I rose and embraced him. This was the very poet who had sent those affectionate letters. I inquired after his health and well-being and offered him betel nut and cardamom. Then I asked, ‘How did you get here?’
He replied, ‘Let us go to your house and then I will tell you all. I went to your home and discovered you were here. I asked my way.’
I stood up to accompany Umapatiji to my home. When he left the room, my friend asked me, ‘Who is that gentleman?’
‘A new friend of mine.’
‘Just be careful about him. He looks dodgy to me.’
‘You’re mistaken. You always judge a man by how smartly he’s turned out. But a man’s nature resides not in his clothes but in his heart.’
‘Well, I leave you to fathom those mysteries; I am just warning you.’
I didn’t answer him and went home with Umapatiji. I sent for food from the bazaar and then we began talking. He recited several of his poems to me. His voice was sweet and full of feeling.
I didn’t understand a word of the poems, but I praised them to the skies. I swayed from side to side exclaiming, ‘Wah! Wah!’ as if there was no greater connoisseur of poetry in the world than me. In the evening we went to see the Ram Leela. When we returned I offered him another meal. Then he began to tell me his news. He was now on his way to pick up his wife from Kanpur. His own family home was in Kanpur. It was his opinion that we should bring out a monthly magazine. One publisher paid him a thousand rupees for his poetry but he wanted to serialize them first in a
