Mission aborted

My innocuous decision to write an autobiography triggered panic in my family. My wife and children had a lot of reservations about it. She had not yet dropped the bomb-shell by uttering her favourite phrase: 8220;No more discussions, period.8221; I reinitiated the discussion to convince her to set me free of my mundane responsibilities, so that I could strive to achieve the literary milestone I intensely longed for. Even the vision of being a walking advertisement of designer labels couldn8217;t bring a sparkle to hernbsp;eyes. Obviously she did not see Rushdie8217;s or Naipaul8217;s wives asnbsp;role models!

8220;Take my word that appreciation of the autobiographical novel doesn8217;t come easy to us Indians,8221; she said. A piece of advice from a sincere critic of my writings momentarily threw all my plans of becoming a celebrity out of the window. Gandhi8217;s portrait adorning the wall in the study reminded me of the inspiring autobiography he had written, and I was quick in citing his example. 8220;Stop living in history, times have changed and people like reading something about Bill Gates or King Khan,8221; she admonished.

I began to ponder. My autobiography would lack the charisma of King Khan but it would have a distinct Dickensian touch, with my Fagin-like stepfather conspiring to push me into delinquency, a heart-wrenching emotional tale of a jilted love, a brush with radical politics, and a career change from trade unionist to entrepreneur. The vicissitudes of life have a lot more to offer and if the writer in me captured all of this it would make a great novel.

8220;Don8217;t count your chickens before they hatch. The picaresque you are planning to write might make you rich and famous and you have the right to earn your living the way you wish. But please do continue to earn your living for us the way you have been doing.8221; And then, the long-awaited bomb-shell was dropped: 8220;No further discussion, period,8221; she said, with steel in her voice.