Dilip was a cash-strapped student. He had no relations, no money, no resources. All he had was an idea.
Somebody had referred him to my father who allowed him to stay rent-free in an outhouse we were not using. A gaunt young man, Dilip had unkempt hair and large, shining eyes. When I met him, he did not display any special deference because I was the son of his benefactor. It took me a while to realize that such worldly tact was utterly alien to his nature. Instead he told me to come and see him another time, more convenient to him, when he could tell me of an important project.
That project, when we got to talk about it, was a novel he was writing that was to change the concept of a modern novel. He had no doubt that he had conceived an idea that was so unique that it would radically alter the notion of a novel. He had been, he said, slogging in poorly paid jobs, tutoring students for long hours, eating bread and soup and skipping meals all together sometimes, to focus on the novel, the major work of his life.
That project, when we got to talk about it, was a novel he was writing that was to change the concept of a modern novel. He had no doubt that he had conceived an idea that was so unique that it would radically alter the notion of a novel. He had been, he said, slogging in poorly paid jobs, tutoring students for long hours, eating bread and soup and skipping meals all together sometimes, to focus on the novel, the major work of his life.
After we had talked a couple of times, he finally let me read the initial chapters of his novel. I was shocked. I found it very pedestrian fiction, structurally loose and, contrary to my expectation, run of the mill in its content. It was a mediocre, unimpressive piece of work that, in my judgment, would be iredeemable by later chapters. I could not bring myself to tell Dilip this; nor did I believe that, if I did, he would pay the slightest heed to my opinion. With a sinking heart, I realized that he was half-starving and killing himself for an effort that would not bring him the breakthrough he was hoping for.
I avoided him for a while, for I feared a conversation would entail some discussion of his novel and I might not be able to disguise my true reaction. When I met him again, he looked even more gaunt than before and, without mincing words, he said he didn’t have money enough for food and needed a loan of a hundred bucks. I truthfully told him that I didn’t have that kind of money to spare and gave him the thirty bucks I was carrying. That was the last time I saw him.
I avoided him for a while, for I feared a conversation would entail some discussion of his novel and I might not be able to disguise my true reaction. When I met him again, he looked even more gaunt than before and, without mincing words, he said he didn’t have money enough for food and needed a loan of a hundred bucks. I truthfully told him that I didn’t have that kind of money to spare and gave him the thirty bucks I was carrying. That was the last time I saw him.
Five days later a neighbor called an ambulance when he saw Dilip collapsing on the street. He needed an emergency surgery and, reportedly because of his poor state, died on the operation table.
When the outhouse he lived in was cleared, somebody found and brought to my father the manuscript of his novel. He passed it on to me, asking if I had any suggestion about what to do with it. It was still an incomplete novel.
I wished I could have given him more than the thirty bucks I gave him.
When the outhouse he lived in was cleared, somebody found and brought to my father the manuscript of his novel. He passed it on to me, asking if I had any suggestion about what to do with it. It was still an incomplete novel.
I wished I could have given him more than the thirty bucks I gave him.
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