Anything for nothing...

We have an incurable penchant for freebies. We heartily welcome anything that comes free of cost with child-like-glee and sometimes, even gloat over our unique ability to wangle out a thing or two from a tightfisted shopkeeper, friend or even a relative. It doesn’t matter if it is a mere diary or a calendar from someone trying hard to liquidate his collection dumped on him by his eager-to-please acquaintances, or if it is some food stuff nearing its sell-by date hurriedly shrink wrapped by the seller to heave it out of his system or if it is a hand out that will do no good to you, your home, or your life except create a clutter in the cupboard; if it is free, then we shall have it. For use or disuse, for keeps or for stash away.
Let’s admit it, it is not an issue of affordability; it is just the habit of asking for or taking gratis that we simply cannot imagine growing out of. It is as though things that don’t need to be paid for have an unmatched value, so much that we hoard unnecessary gifts and complimentary things that we may not even consider taking out and dusting, forget using, every once in a while. Or is it just the juvenile pleasure of having conned the man who must have so arduously put in his effor t and money to churn out things that he thought were priceless, but turned out to be duds in the end? Or are we seriously pleased that we saved some money that would have otherwise been “squandered” on those “unwanted” things?
I am perplexed by this queer behaviour that makes us put our hand out, wear a comical grin that is tantamount to asking for that ‘little extra” or “something free”, wink at our partner in nasty pride when we indeed succeed in landing something, expect a friend slogging away at a chocolate/juice/biscuit/cosmetic/or even inner wear company (trust me, people don’t mind taking them free even if meant a little loss of grace) to bring us a complimentary packet every time they visit us.
While I have acknowledged this nearly incorrigible manner in almost every human being that I have known, barring a few exceptions, I have never been so tickled by the tendency of my acquaintances who have unabashedly asked for their free copy of my recently published, first novel. While the reaction to the news about my maiden literary endeavour among my contacts has varied from grim nods, gleeful appreciation and grave quizzing to gross disregard and gawky silence, one question that has stood above all responses is, “Where is our signed complimentary copy?”
To all those who presume that having a book published is only a step short of being a best seller and that it would soon help me laugh all the way to the bank, and to those who even believe that I already have a big signing amount in my kitty, here is an earth-shattering truth. I make any money only if you want me to. Only if you pay for those 450 pages that I have painstakingly penned in (all right, punched in on my pc). Only if you earnestly stand behind me and cheer me on.
Only if you consider buying it as an act done for a worthy cause – helping a friend find her feet in a crowded, competitive literary world – can I gain even a grain out of it.
And to those few who cheekily quipped that they were die hard fans of pirated copies, and hence would buy my book at the traffic signal, here is a disclosure: only best sellers ever make it to the traffic signals. Thanks for wishing me a place there.
I shall wait for the day when my book touches such levels of popularity. If and when it does, I shall take a bow with a chest stuffed with gratitude towards all those who did not ask (even jokingly) for a complimentary copy or wait for the book to hit the signals, but went out and got it for money. If ever I make it there, it will be because of you.

Announcing the grand arrival..

After three years in gestation and three more years in incubation, my baby is finally out, ready to face the world!!!
Plump and cherubic, she has taken over my life and my attention like nothing else ever has. She is named Sand Storms, Summer Rains, SSSR in short. I had decided on her name the day she was conceived in my mind. And I loved it instantly. The name symbolized seasons, sentiments, spirit and reflections.
Although she was clinically born, as a manuscript, three years after the first seminal thought was sown in my mind, she was premature, barely in a state to be presented in front of the world. Imagine me, a fragile baby in hand, about who I spoke only in whispers, reiterating that she indeed was there, but not in a state to be seen or felt, reassuring myself that she would survive in the end, hoping that I would soon find someone who would nourish and foster her, scampering around in a frantic attempt to find that elusive messiah, the publisher, who would give my baby the elixir of life!
Days of hope alternated with nights of despair, as I watched over her, loving her more with each passing day, wondering if such a beautiful creation indeed came through me, thanking the universe for giving me the inspiration to beget her and at times, dropping in utter desperation over having her in a partial state of existence. Neither alive nor dead. Three years passed in waiting, as I continued to watch her, clutching my heart, helpless and hopeless, often tempted to strangle and dump her. My hopes of her coming out of the condition began to fade. The messiah was not coming to my door, after all. I saw her vital signs beginning to fail and I found no way to revive her. I found myself on the verge of giving her up to death amidst ardent entreaties to the Gods.
And then one day, heeding my ardent appeals, the angel came down. It was a miracle. I handed my baby over to him, with shivering hands and quivering lips, with a plea in my eyes to give my baby a life. The angel smiled and said, “Do not worry, she is in my care.” He took her to his care home, gave her proper form and breathed fresh gust of life into her. All the while, away from them, I waited, not knowing what I might finally see.
Then the stork arrived, in postman’s uniform, and handed me my bundle of joy. It was a moment when my innards imploded with ecstasy, my limbs went weak with disbelief and my heart pounded with the force of a frenzied gale. It was an amazing moment of holding Sand Storms, Summer Rains in my hand. SSSR looked into my eyes and gave me an angelic smile, as though she knew what it felt to have her before me as a bona fide testimony of my labour and love.
I have yet to get over the euphoria of having her back in my life as a veritable entity. I presume I will never get over it. Now, as I hand her over to the world, for I know that she was born for the sake of the world to regale its people, I am fearful, like all mothers, of what would befall her. Of how the vast expanse out there would receive and treat her. Of how she would survive among the sharks and squids in the dark, unknown, fathomless depths of the earth. I am paranoid about her future and it makes me do things that only a mother will venture to do for her child.
As I prepare to move the mountains and shift the seas to help her set sail on her maiden voyage into the literary world, I pray for her success, for her to win her moment in the sun, to be a name that the world will recognize.
As she takes leave of me, I stand tall, preening with the pride, feeling disquiet in my heart all the same. Will she make it? Or will she fall by the way side? Will she find her way? Or will she get lost in the alleys? I can’t stop agonizing over her. Which mother, for that matter, has ever succeeded in doing that?
As she slowly seeps into the crowd, I wait, with bated breathe.
A mother’s grand dreams for her little one has just begun to roll.
Jai Ho, I whisper, as my maternal instinct overwhelms me and I toss a tear off my cheek.