Mysterious Caller

“I knew you always had it in you,” he said.

He had heard that line so often that he no longer felt a thing.
“Ratan, sorry but I have to go now,” he said.
“Of course. The celebrity. No time for...”
He tried not to get worked up.
He went on, “My wife admired your novel. She says you kept her on tenterhooks all the time.”
“Really?” He was bored now.
“Yes. She said she loved the ending most.”
He nodded absently.
“You haven’t met Neeta. But she’d love to meet you.”
“Look Ratan, I have to go.” he said and left hurriedly.

He felt relieved when he left. He brushed aside a twinge of guilt though with the treatment he had just given to his school mate.
The novel had been a bestseller. And the acclaim and publicity? Who could deny he hadn’t reveled in it. Those words in the reviews; Original. Brilliant. Page-turner. It gave him a high. He especially liked original. The high from that had lasted really long.

But after a year of being a celebrity he felt a weariness settle over him. He remembered the words of a tennis world champion who’d been a celebrity. And it wasn’t arrogance that made her say it.
“I’m tired of winning,” she had said.
Though he could not match her credentials, the words seemed to ring so true.

Suddenly his cell-phone rang. The caller was not on his contact list.
“Arman Singhvi?” It was a woman.
“Tell me,” he said, not too attentive. Another fan perhaps!
There was a long silence at the other end. After a while, he was forced to break it.
“Do I know you? Are you a fan or something?”
“Well, well, Mr. Singhvi. It’s obvious that your vanity has gone up quite a notch.” The voice had a harsh quality to it.
“What do you mean? So you’re not a fan.”
“No.”
“No big deal.”
“But I read your novel. It’s very, very mediocre. In some places it’s really bad.”
“Oh. You’re the first one to criticize my work. Surprising.” he replied in a stern voice.
“Maybe your admirers like to indulge in unrealistic fantasies about themselves. Anyway, there’s no substance in your novel at all.”
He was getting annoyed.
“I’ll call you at 9:17 in the morning on Thursday,” she said and hung up.
Mediocre? After a year of being a celebrated writer? Who did she think she was? Some high-brow literary critic?
Soon he’d forgotten about it. But on Thursday morning he casually looked at his watch. It was 9 am. After a while he found his eyes glancing at the watch again.

9:15.

He shook his head. "What’s got into me?" But his eyes kept straying to the watch.

Exactly 9:17.

He was already holding the phone to his ear when it rang.
“Hello Mr. Singhvi. I wanted to tell you. Your novel was too sentimental. A real tear-jerker. Very mushy.”
“Look,” He said, “Are you saying that all those people are wrong? They read it and loved it.”
“So write some more of that stuff. Good for you.”
“Sure. But people do need some relief from reality—”
“So you feed them what they want. And you make it big.”
“You’re nuts.”
“I’ll call again on Monday in the evening at 6:37.”
“Look, hold on. I want to—” But she’d hung up.

The next few days he just could not concentrate. He was trying out some ideas for his second novel. But it did not seem to be going anywhere. He had a generous advance for the novel and a contract signed by a reputed publishing house. He had a deadline of six months. From what he had written so far it did not look as if he would make it. No semblance of a theme had crystallized in his mind. He kept rejecting everything that came.

As he sat frustrated in his house, he became preoccupied with this mysterious caller. What got him the most was that she’d said things about his novel which so far no one else had. Of course, he did not really agree with her. She seemed too fastidious. One of those readers, he consoled myself. Besides, she might just be another failed writer, envious of his success. But however much he tried, he could not shake off the uneasiness.

Another thing that was intriguing was her precision about time. On both occasions she’d called exactly when she said she would. Even to the minute. He wondered if it was deliberate. If it was to get him more worked up in anticipating her calls, she’d definitely succeeded!

On Monday, after a whole afternoon trying to concentrate he shut off his laptop in sheer futility. Looking out of the window, he waited restlessly, watching the evening shadows closing in. He could hear his heart skipping beat as the time drew near.
6:30...6:36...
6:37.
His cell-phone exploded with the sound in his ears.
‘Hello Hello” he yelled into it.
“You seem to be really anxious to hear my voice.”
“I am. I’ve been waiting to hear...” He stopped.
“So you agree with all I said about your novel?”
“No. No, not really. But I still want to hear—”
“Your novel is too predictable. Life has its own twists and turns. Its surprises.”
“I don’t get it.”
“You might one day.”
“I’ll call you again on Friday, in the afternoon at 3:13,” she said.
“Hey, hang on. Please—” But she’d hung up.

The stress was getting on to him now. He hated any kind of disruption to his schedule. And waiting for those calls of hers had disrupted all his control over daily activities, particularly his writing.
He thought he’d never have an idea again. He’d suffered bouts of writer’s block, but this was something else. Her harsh criticism of his work left his fingers numb, frozen over the keyboard. All he did was stare blankly at the laptop screen, overwhelmed by a sense of helplessness.

He could not sleep very well the next few days. His writing career seemed to have come to a standstill. It was as if his lifeblood as a writer was being slowly drained out of him.
By the time Friday arrived, he was exhausted. He waited. This time he waited exactly for 3:13 p.m. Sure enough, the phone rang.
“Hello,” He said hopelessly.
“How have you been?” It was almost as if she knew.
“Not too good.”
“That’s the way reality is. It’s not always feel-good.”
“Is there anything left to say about my novel?”
“Of course.”
“What?”
“Your leading lady. Your heroine. She did have to be a flawless beauty, didn’t she?”
“What do you mean?”
“Well Mr. Singhvi. Has it ever struck you that there are millions of ordinary women who don’t look like your heroine? They’re also part of God’s creation. They have their stories too, don’t they?”
“But who would want to read about—”
“Exactly. If you portrayed a real woman your story wouldn’t sell.”
“Look, can you spare me the sermon. I’m sick of—”
“I’ll call again. On Wednesday at 3:49 am early morning.”
“Hey. What kind of a time is that?”
But she’d hung up!!

He felt like a man being tried in public for a heinous crime. And going by the evidence, it looked as if the prosecution was winning.
He waited with a restless desperation. On Tuesday night, he anxiously adjusted the alarm for 3:45 am before going off to bed. But she had him rattled; to the extent that he could not sleep a wink. He just waited on and on interminably, eyes open, nervously snatching glances at his watch. The alarm sounded.
4 more minutes, he told myself.
There it rang again. Bang on at 3:49.
“Mr. Singhvi?”
“Okay. Get it over with, will you?” he was drowsy and irritable.
“The ending in your novel. It’s too neat. You tie up all the loose ends. It could have ended on a note of mystery. Real life has more mystery than you seem to think.”
“Oh, I see. And now am I supposed to thank you for all these words of wisdom?” he said sarcastically.
“Not at all. It’s possible you might benefit from it, though. Next time you might write about something real.”
He thought she’d hang up. But she went on. “I wonder if you are man enough to meet me. Face to face.”
He could not hide his surprise. “What...? You want to meet me?”
“Why not? That’s if you have the courage.” She added “I just have to make one final point about your novel. But this time it’ll have to be face to face.”
He felt humiliated and intimidated at the same time.
“When...where do you want to meet?” he asked.
“On Friday. At Skylark Hotel. First Floor. Room 17. Book it in advance. Be there in the room latest by 11:10 am. I’ll come in at 11:12. And no funny business with me, Mr. Singhvi. I can more than take care of myself. Remember, to be on time.”
Before he could say anything, she added, “But I wonder if you have the courage to face a real woman.”
She hung up.

My God. This could be dangerous. What if it was all a setup? And she came armed with a gun or something? That she was some kind of crazy women’s activist with a psychopathic hatred towards men, willing to kill if need be.
But there was another subconscious fear lurking in him, something he’d been trying to suppress. Her scathingly ruthless evaluation of him as a writer had fueled in him an obsessive self-doubt which had already crippled him.
Confronting his nemesis in person was something he was not ready for.
But after much anxious deliberation, he decided to go.
He managed to book the room, though it took him a superhuman effort to make it through to Friday.
On Friday morning he nicked himself twice while shaving. He dressed absent-mindedly. Then drove in his car to the hotel. He picked up the key to the hotel room from the reception desk.
Making his way to the first floor, he entered Room no. 17. It was sparsely furnished, with a T.V set, a single bed and a wardrobe and desk. He had absolutely no intention to spend much time there.

A real woman. He would make sure the door remained open while they chatted. He sat on a chair and waited. He had kept the other chair in the room at a distance from him, where she could be seated.
It was exactly 11 am. From past experience, he knew she would be there, dead on time.
It was 11:05.
He sat with bated breath, trying to contain his anxiety. His heart began to pound. He wanted to just rush out and end this once and for all. Never mind his reputation or manhood.
He quickly glanced at his watch. It was 11:07a.m.
There was a knock on the door.
Too late.
He looked at his watch again, surprised. She was 5 minutes early. He opened the door.

It was Ratan.
“Hey, what the...?” He was stunned.
“Hi Arman.”
“You? What’re you...?”
Before he could say anything, Ratan had barged into the room. He came and sat on the bed.
“I came to see a friend of mine,” he said, excitedly. “He’s on the ground floor. I saw you at the reception desk. I called after you. You didn’t hear. So I asked at the desk and they told me you were here.”
“Ratan, do you mind going at once? Immediately?”
“Wh...Why?”
“Something very urgent. I’m already late. I’ll get back to you as soon as I’m finished.”
“Always the celebrity,” he smirked.
“Yes!” he screamed at him.
“Okay. Okay.” He got up, alarmed. He glanced at my watch. It was 11:11.
He just hoped Ratan doesn’t run into her. Disturbed as he was, he did not want a complication like that to heighten his rising agitation.

It was 11:12

Nothing. Except for the swishing sound of a text message received on his phone.
He closed his eyes, trying to control his hoarse breathing. After sometime he looked at the watch again. 11:13.
It was one minute past time.
Another minute passed. He waited five minutes more. He went to the door. There was nobody there. Not in the corridor or anywhere else. He came back into the room. He sat there for another fifteen minutes. Then he got up and went out and locked the door to the room. He made his way towards the ground floor and stopped at the reception desk. He deposited the key, and paid up the balance and walked out of the hotel.

She hadn’t come. She was the one who chickened out.
He felt a wave of confidence sweep over him.
Then he suddenly remembered. The text messages. He grabbed hold of his cell-phone.
There it was. Exactly at 11:12. He read it.

Discussion closed. You do have the courage. All the best for your next novel!

He knew it would probably be the last he'd hear from her. Though he felt relieved, he could not help acknowledge a grudging respect and gratefulness. He needed some time to reflect. It was one of those moments that only a writer knows.

The seed of an idea was already beckoning him, waiting for a signal to germinate, to take form in his head. He embraced it, exploring the possibilities, stretching space in his imagination for it to grow. Soon, as he walked. he felt a rising sense of excitement.
This time he knew he had it. His next novel - 

About a celebrity writer.
Who had become weary and dead in spirit.
And who’d been shaken up and stirred to life.
By a mysterious caller!!