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| Thats him! |
'Who do I make it out to?' I am asked, just as I am recovering
from a series of shocks, namely:
(A) realising that you have made a two hour journey from your
home to that part of the city you despise the most- battling rains and
cancelled trains, that too on your day off- all for getting your favourite
author's signature... WITHOUT CARRYING A FUCKING PEN!,
(B) then, realising that the lady at the counter whom you have
asked for a spare pen has- unintentionally, I'm hoping- handed to you one that
looks more like a tooth pick than something a person can write using,
(C) then, realising that you have just walked up to a man you
personally consider a legend and shook his hand and mouthed your pathetic
little ditty that goes 'Big fan sir, really big fan...' in your pathetic little
voice, only to then hand him your copy of his book alongwith the previously
borrowed toothpick as he stares uncomfortably at it- the way gods used to
wielding tridents and and sceptres and what not are bound to stare when handed
nail-cutters and can-openers.
Your mentor is polite enough to hand the
pathetic-excuse-of-a-pen back to you, borrowing in its stead, a real one from
another reader who- unlike yours truly- clearly understands the importance of
carrying a decent fucking pen when attending a book signing event.
Then, the question, 'Who do I make it to?'
To which I reply, having picked the worst possible moment for
forgetting that I go by a pen name.
Crap.
Another brief handshake and I managed to mumble a 'nice meeting
you, sir' before he was off again.
Terrible, terrible day I tell you. But totally worth it.
PS: God that sparkling head of hair! Pure unabashed white!
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