He was my favorite writer and I happened to meet him when he was very young. Now that when I looked back, he didn’t show any signs of being a genius which he is now. I could have written a magazine article on him. But I cringed in thinking why didn’t I pick the early signs of his genius. Or was his genius was burdened under the weight of heavy expectations he had from himself or simply he hasn’t learnt to adhere to his true calling (he was probably dabbling in this and that, mostly to tell or impress others). Or maybe I didn’t read his best writing or pieces where there were signs of early excellence.
Or quite simply (means I had been really hard on myself) he wasn’t a genius at that time. He was a simple man, just living his life. And that maybe because life hadn’t hit him hard and hadn’t put him on the course of being a genius.
Five feet and Nine Inch Casket of a Life
The pomegranate red acnes on her cheeks resembled keloids. Her eyebrows bushy and her forehead creased like an elderly lady. She arrived in the mortuary ward of hospital to meet him. She didn’t want to be a part of his obsession, which was she.
She thought it was joke what he said about life.