The Grand Prize

Raj was not one bit delighted when he wrote to the Creative Writers Society (Canary Wharf), ‘I am absolutely delighted to win the prize.’

In that missive, he dedicated a paragraph to how the Society changes the world. He clarified, ‘the world of writers like him’. Only after sending the mail did he wonder if the Society would misunderstand his sarcasm, and take it well. After all, even that was not a small world.

His disappointment was not unreasonable. The Society needlessly mentioned in its congratulatory note that the number of entries had been abysmally low for that month’s competition. They continued to twist the dagger in the soft sensitive areas by informing him that the eminent writer who was supposed to judge the competition had pulled out at the last moment ‘citing pecuniary differences’. They added, ‘The Society chairman had to carry the cross.’ As if that was not enough negativity, the very convenient recession was given as the reason for changing the prize from cash to coupons. Raj thought of protesting, ‘Why are you holding an international competition and offering a prize that can be redeemed in some store in East London?’ He withheld his protest only because the competition was without entry fee. It seemed wrong to criticize them when he could not figure out what they gained from the whole exercise.

He decided to send the coupons to a distant cousin in London. He was not sure if the cousin would pay, even with a discount, but the alternative was a friend who, without any reasonable doubt, would take it as a gift. Blood tends to be thicker when laced with hope.

As for the comment about the prize changing his world, he was not off the mark. Later, he would curse his foresight.

The change precipitated on the internet (where else?).

A disgruntled loser in the same competition spewed venom on a blog, and attacked ‘the winning entry that got the grand prize of fifty pounds’. Sarcasm, once again, faced the danger of being misinterpreted by the literally-minded.

That blog caught the attention of a junior correspondent of a local newspaper. Somewhere in the trip from that flunky’s browser to the editor’s desk, that metamorphosed into front page news about Raj and his ‘fifty grand prize’. The headline read, ‘Small town wins global prize’.

The first day brought with it calm dignity. At the milk-booth and the tea-stall, acquaintances congratulated him. A mother at the school bus-stop asked him, ‘Which book or coaching class should my kids attend?’

Raj’s friend Sunil turned up and demanded a booze-session.

Raj tried to reason, ‘Oye, I haven’t got any money.’

Sunil understood, ‘As if you would give otherwise, Scrooge.’ He tried to make that Scrooge rhyme with Raj.

Trouble started by the end of the day. Two nonagenarian writers in the vernacular who shared between them every award given in the state sounded miffed on a TV news-channel. The old man barked, ‘Bah! We should not accept alms from old colonial lords.’ The old lady was more cantankerous, ‘This is an assault on the vernacular. Now, every kid will write in English to get a pound. Mind you, with this pound, this award is taking our dignity, our freedom, our culture, our heritage, our national pride.’ She would have added more ‘ours’ if that had not left her breathless.

The popular newsreader called up Raj for his response. At nine pm, it was ‘live breaking news’. Raj tried befuddled incomprehension at first. When the reporter started putting words into his mouth, he decided for the shortest way out, ‘I agree totally with Shree Masterji and Shreemati Teacherji. I will use part of the funds to publicize their works.’ The nonagenarians, who were still on TV, well past their bedtime, seemed placated and they retired for the night after amiably blessing Raj.

The reporter was not pleased with that hot news losing steam so quickly. The next day he stirred the dirt in the shallow pool. The breaking news read, ‘Writer reveals all.’ The reporter used everything in his repertoire to express outrage, from constipated frustration to smug condescension. The message was clear to all. Raj had used all of them in his stories; without permission; worse, without compensation.

Some tried to read his stories on his blog-space. That was too arduous a task. Raj’s relatives, who had contacted him directly on the first day when they heard about the cash prize, got in touch with his parents, ‘What has he written about me?’ Even his siblings were worried.

The mother at the school bus-stop confronted him, ‘I do not abuse my kids.’ She wept loudly and cursed him. 

The owners of the tea-stall and the milk-booth were curious, ‘How did you know he was sleeping with my wife?’

Raj did not know what to say. What could he say when they seemed to be protesting about stories he had never thought of? He noted it down, however, for future use, after the dust settles.

Sunil turned up once again. He was not bothered if he was there in the stories or not. In fact, he hoped he was there in those stories, thinly disguised as serial rapist or lecherous alcoholic. Raj wondered if his friend had actually read his stories because he had used Sunil in similar nefarious roles. To his friend, he denied, of course. He was quite sure Sunil would ask for more than a pound of flesh.

Sunil’s attention shifted, ‘Hey, I met your old love, Anjana.’

Anjana was Raj’s first love, terribly unrequited and horribly embarrassing.

Sunil continued, ‘She is really livid with rage.’

‘Why so?’ Raj was surprised.

‘She did not like her role in your story ‘First Night’. Well, all that sex and fumbling, quite realistic, I say, but…’ Sunil reported.

‘But, she is not the one in ‘First Night’,’ Raj protested. ‘Who gave her that idea?’

‘I did,’ Sunil looked pleased, ‘Come on, you must have thought of all that, with her.’

‘Of course not, it was platonic,’ Raj said.

‘What crap, how many times did you cry on my shoulder about you and your bloody love for Anjana?’ Sunil asked.

‘But, I never thought of sex with her,’ Raj said.

‘Bloody hell, how could you love without sex?’ Sunil exclaimed.

Raj fidgeted for a while. ‘She has got a nasty husband.’

‘Hmmm… she told me that she would be telling him,’ Sunil paused, ‘they have a loving and trusting relationship, she claimed… holy crap, I felt like puking!’

‘Why did you tell her, you fool?’ Raj cried.

‘Well, she asked me if she was there in your stories. Narcissism, I guess,’ Sunil said, ‘And, I have read only one story of yours. The others don’t have sex, right?’

‘This goddamn prize…!’