If you’re turning 14 next month, let me inform you that I started writing this column when you were born. Sounds like forever, doesn’t it? The older lot might wonder why I’m addressing 14-year-olds, and whether there are any at all who read me. Let me assure you there are. Among the notable emails I’ve got from schoolchildren since 2002 are: a girl who said she spoke in my defence when she fought with her mother over something I’d written; and a pupil who first read me in high school and continued doing so all the way through medical college. “I used to read your column when I was in ninth standard,” said a young techie to me last month, and added regretfully, “Now I don’t get the time.”
Besides letters from 14- and 15-year-olds, I’ve had them from 20- and 30- and 40-somethings, and from those who’re closer to my age or even decades older. The whole nine yards, in fact. Looking back, it’s rather gratifying. I’m looking back because there’s no more looking forward. We columnists are like share croppers tending someone else’s fields. We faithfully cultivate our plots and feed the public but the landlords can evict us any time. Since I’m not the sentimental kind and do not believe in tear-jerking goodbyes, I seriously considered giving you the slip. Wordlessly fading into oblivion. But I had second thoughts because if I had done so, I would have had to reply to you one at a time, sending out the same email, one after the other, each time one of you woke up to the fact that I’d deserted you and demanded an explanation. Too much trouble. I’m a lazy sod, you see. Therefore let me just announce it now and get it over with: adios, amigos. Not that that would prevent you from writing to me, one by one, to tell me how you’ll miss me and so on. Which would oblige me to reply to you (I’d be an utter cad if I didn’t), emailing you one by one...sigh, there’s no winning this I suppose.
Besides being lazy, I’m also selfish. You often comment that my columns give you pleasure, but truth be told, I get a great deal more out of you than you, out of me. You bring me solace. I am comforted by the fact that I am not alone in this increasingly insane world. Even when I provoke you, expecting a backlash, I am surprised at how many of you think like me. My writing this column, therefore, is an act of selfishness. It’s my way of seeking kindred spirits.
Lazy, selfish, what else? I don’t remember all your names. When you write after a long gap, for instance, I quickly check the archive for your last letter so that I can slip in a knowing line and pretend I didn’t forget what we last spoke about. A dastardly cheat, that’s what I am. A lazy, selfish cheat — how do you put up with me? I wouldn’t put up with me. The miracle is that you have. You’ve devoured what I’ve cooked up and never reported a tummy upset, perhaps because it’s all natural stuff, no toxic additives, no harmful side effects. I took pride in never repeating myself, although you could easily identify my pet peeves: rampant consumerism, hollow patriotism and hypocritical morality. When I laughed, you laughed with me; when I sounded despondent you sent me cheery images. And over time, your emails kept feeding my shameless ego.
I get a steady flow of letters from new readers. Correction: readers who’re new to me because they haven’t written before, but are old readers because they’ve been reading me for a long time. All their letters sound remarkably similar. I can’t help smiling when I read: “I’ve been reading your columns for many years and have always wanted to write to you but this is the first time...” and so on. I smile because the reader/writer is innocent of the fact that a hundred others have written practically the same lines to me before. Another thing that makes me smile is when I go outdoors and I notice a stranger look at me twice, approach me hesitantly, and say, “Excuse me but...” This is followed by “aren’t you? or “don’t you?” and of course I know what’s coming, so I can’t help nodding before the sentence ends, and I have to restrain myself from completing it. My standard reply is, yes I am, or yes I do. I always say enthusiastically, “Mail me,” and I mean it. Once, though, I was exiting my brother’s flat when a new neighbour said, “Excuse me but ...” My head was just beginning to shake up and down when her next words froze it solid. “Don’t your recipes appear in...” and she named a Malayalam women’s magazine. Dear oh dear. Rightly has it been said, pride goeth before a fall.
I never cease to be amazed by people recognising me from the little photograph next to the column. Once it stops appearing, and before the memory of it fades, I wonder how many will come up to me and say, “Didn’t you use to write...” Que sera sera.
