Tutored By The Temptress

‘An ideal story is the one that writes itself,’ Nakul signed off at the conclave, swaying between flippancy and intensity. Being flippant came easy to him, as would vouch his family, friends and others who were neither of the other two. What else would you say of a young man in a conservative Indian society, who renounced a plush job for the dark labyrinths of a writing career? His parents reckoned they had been too soft on him; he had not seen hardship. The value of financial security eluded him. To Myra, the woman who had claimed to know him better than he knew himself, this was a tactic to evade their wedding nuptials. He would have her examined for paranoia, but that could wait. At this time, he was not willing to barter his dreams for social approval. Today, the acknowledgement he received at the Young Turks’ Literary Conclave in Switzerland seemed to answer his detractors.

‘This is only the beginning,’ argued Cecilia, between mouthfuls of her secret recipe of the evening. ‘And don’t bother answering your detractors. Vengeance is but a constriction en route creativity.’

Nakul nodded politely. Inwardly, he marveled at the girl’s dexterity with words. He also decided she was remarkably intelligent for a housekeeper at a countryside bed-and-breakfast. She was amused when he opened up to her about his notions, later that week. In his defense, housekeepers in India were not perceived to be intelligent. A person’s capabilities were judged per the choices he made.

‘Your choices are your fetters,’ she laughed. He was inadvertently drawn to her as she regaled him with stories of her limited choices; the orphanage she had grown up in had been kind, but not inspiring. When she took a liking to demonology, she was banished from the orphanage and ostracized by the local church. With meager belongings and fewer choices, she set out in pursuit of her passion. It had been a mad long journey, and she was still traveling. Scathed, and her financial condition leaving a lot to be desired, she was still content with living her dream. She told him of her recent adventure - the exorcism of a middle-aged farmer in a Scottish village. What looked visually devastating proved spiritually enriching for her.

The morning he was leaving, she walked him to his cab. He did not want to go. She had inspired him when no one else had shown a semblance of conviction in his decisions.  She leant into him and kissed him. He remembered the firmness in her eyes as she said, ‘If you find my inspiration worked wonders, come back and tell me how.’

Once back home, he started writing his first novel. To his dismay, he did not have a story on him. He sat doggedly at a corner of The Bombay Café for weeks at end, staring out the window, watching people pass by, scanning their motley expressions for a stroke of motivation. But nothing yielded.  He could not get over his memories of an unfaltering Cecilia, and the diktat of fulfilling a dream she had issued to him. Possessed by her, he spun a story around a young Indian’s rendezvous with a demonologist he fell in love with – a story that found few takers in the market.  When a dying publication sourced his manuscript with a frail attempt at redeeming its business, its owner fell in love with the outlandish plot and decided to publish it.

A year later, Nakul had found readers aplenty. His debut project, Tutored By A Temptress, had recorded massive sales and myriad responses that ranged from awe to vitriol. He had detached himself from the story the day he had launched it to market; the woman he had attributed it to seemed to have been an illusion. The emails had all bounced back. The phone number he had was now out of service. But when he was couriered the program booklet for the upcoming Frankfurt book fair, he was left reeling. The brochure, in its listed bestsellers, had pipped psychologist Gerald Bond’s “Meandering Minds” on the top spot. The synopsis talked about the doctor’s tryst with a certain Cecilia Gomes, whose imaginative identities had shown her around the world. Last found in a gypsy band traveling across the African deserts, she was previously known to be an aspiring demonologist who had fallen hopelessly in love with a young Indian who had taught her how to smile. Of the countless cases of multiple personality disorders that he had encountered, this one stunned him with the rapid changes he saw in this woman…

Nakul flung the brochure on his bed with a trembling hand. Somewhere, he heard his own words ring out loud: ‘An ideal story is the one that writes itself…’