A strange Story

From time to time, I escape to faraway places to work on my novels and short stories. The pretext of writing enables the solitude that is so essential for living. I certainly don’t suffer from the delusion that the mind is creative only when freed from the routines of everyday life. Even so I am always happy to accept when friends invite me to visit their part of the country.

- Vivek Shanbhag

Once I am under their obligation, I feel reluctant to challenge their beliefs about writing. They think rivers, mountains, greenery, sunrises and so on are inspiring to a writer. When they show me such sights and say, “Ah! Think of how much writing you could get done with a view like this,” I simply nod.

This time it was a friend who worked in the survey department in Shillong. He lured me by saying he was due to retire soon and could make good arrangements for my stay if I visited while he was still there. I went.

In that already beautiful city, my friend had found me a place ringed by hills. It was the outhouse of an old couple’s residence. They lived in the middle of a large compound with no other houses nearby. The three-roomed quarters at the back of the compound were mine: a well-equipped kitchen, neat bedroom, and a tiny hall.

My first two days coincided with the weekend, and my friend showed me around the city. Then, as if asking me to get down to business, he said, “Now there’s no one to trouble you. You can get on with your writing. I’m going to be away for eight days, but just call if you need anything. I’ll arrange it.” He got into his jeep and left. I went to sleep thinking about how to use the next three weeks there.