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The Remix of Orchid | Rs 250 | Written and published by A N Nanda

There are some stories that make a point, and stop. And then there are others that make a point and don’t stop. Rather, they fade into the end. One wonders what manner of a story would require such a fade.

Perhaps a story about a place. Because places don’t really end. They just stretch out into other places.

A N Nanda’s The Remix of Orchid has the Andaman islands at its centre. Though the book features husbands and wives, thieves, undersea divers and even ghosts, the star of the tale remains the island paradise.

I tortured myself with the Govinda-Salman starrer Partner this Saturday. Govinda is wasted and Salman can’t act even if someone held a gun to his head. Feeling violated, I walked weakly out of the theatre in Andheri. The one who took us there denied it was his idea.

I considered settling down at a coffee shop or something with my copy of Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows but my phone rings and my evening plans are set. I took my leave from one disillusioned group of friends to join another, somewhere in Bandra.

If I had to count the number of times I have succeeded in my life, I would… well… fail. It continues to happen, several times a day, all week, all year. Nobody hears of these successes because conventional wisdom has a limited understanding of what success really is.

Commercialised and glitz-driven as our world is, it does not overrate success. Instead, it seriously underrates it. The thousand little smiles you earn by doing something you love or by making a tiny little difference in a friend’s or stranger’s life don’t count as successes, but a paycheck does.

Ever been called to lunch and refused it or postponed it because you had a late breakfast and were not hungry? Ever seen people cajoled into a marriage, even if they were not ready, because it was time for them? In short, have you ever, when told it was time, felt otherwise?

Some people choose the evening snack over the lunch. Many choose to remain unmarried if they realise they can’t do justice to the bond. What do you think separates these people, however moderately, from the great majority who live by the book?

Many writers aren’t good at anything much apart from writing. They pride themselves at it. It’s in their blood, they tell themselves. It’s their soul, they tell everyone. It is what they were born to do. Then the writer’s block hits and life becomes meaningless. They sit with their fingers on the keyboard or palms on the notepad and wonder what is the point of their existing anymore.

Few however, kill themselves over it. They have come to realise that the block is inescapable and have ways to counter it. As in many other fields in life, what is required is that you don’t stop. But that’s too general a solution, isn’t it?

When I was in Cuttack till three years ago, my grandfather got bananas for us all the time. By the dozen no less. After he had stocked half of the grocery cupboard with the fruit, he would call upon his able grandsons to partake of his gift. He expected ravenous appetites in us. We disappointed.

It was something of a horrific routine. Every morning, I would wake up to Ba (we call him Ba) calling out to us as he laboriously stacked the bunches in the cupboard. He is over eighty, yet his voice is both loud and high-pitched. It never fails to shock me out of sleep.