The Blank Screen

Ian Fleming said that to write about extraordinary things, you must to some extent have led an extraordinary life. Ashok reflected that as per that rule he should confine himself to writing about interminable office calls at late hours and the constant rush of overconfident deadlines. But people had enough of that in real life. Would anyone pay to read it in print?

Stoop shouldered Ashok stared at the blank Google document in front of him. Pristine white with its possibilities. But 6 months into the 1 year career break he had given himself to make it as a writer those possibilities were as pristine as ever. While his trash folder had gorged itself on a steady diet of kilobytes.

The latest installment of the 10,000 rupee writing course he had subscribed to had advised him to look around himself for inspiration. Ashok moved to the window of his studio apartment. Well, studio apartment is what the ad had called it. In Bangalore that meant a one room converted servants’ quarters on the roof of a retired couple’s bungalow overlooking a busy market street.

Ashok’s gaze swept the streaming commuters below. There were certainly a lot of people about for 4pm. Was this a weekend, he wondered. He stared the vibrant pink blossoms across the road struggling to come up with something. What did blooms mean? A new beginning? Love? What did it mean for the deeper human condition? What did it mean for life? Ashok felt it was hard to write about the meaning of life having only lived it vicariously through the pages of books.

Ashok put on a clean t shirt and stepped out. This wasn’t procrastination, he told himself, it was research. As he reached the street, his ears were overwhelmed with the engine growl of a yellow Lamborghini that streaked by. Now there was something to work with. Ashok had no idea about the life of someone who could afford a Lamborghini. But then probably neither did anyone who would read his book. If you were busy making money to buy a Lamborghini, you didn’t have time to read a novel. The same was equally true if you were busy spending your father’s money who had worked to buy a Lamborghini.

Lets see now. He would place a handsome young man at the wheel. No … a gorgeous woman would be better. Free spirited with a devil-may-care attitude, determined, dynamic a powerful personality. But she had to be human too. A quiet buried vulnerability. Good, the character was falling in place. She had a secret sense of unfulfillment, a loneliness she was afraid to admit to herself. Who would she pair up with? A mysterious stranger, yes the readers would lap that up and …

At this point something deep in his soul cried “STOP!” Ashok realized that way lay Mills & Boone. With a horrified shudder he banished these thoughts and continued on his way.

He caught his reflection on the wood paneled plate glass window of a trendy café. Now there was a good setting. Cafes were a staple of literature from sophisticated 19th century Paris to exotic medieval Istanbul. Yes, yes, a café would be a good start. You could do a lot in a café. The average Bangalore Café had 2 wannabe writers, 2 business plan creators, 1 startup and at least 3 guys trying to make it with a girl they had met online or at the office. Surely something in there could be worked into a story. Ashok would go inside and observe.

He pushed open the ornate mock Tudor door. To his alarm, this jingled a bell above him. A highly trained girl in a barista uniform turned to him and smiled “Good Morning. What can I get for you today?”

Ashok stared in horror at the price list above the counter. He had to buy something. Otherwise what would the girl think? The cheapest item on the menu was a 150 rupee shot of espresso. But he didn’t want to put his tongue and stomach through that. So, he settled for the marginally more expensive cappuccino taking care to specify the smallest allowed quantity.

Seating himself in a corner, he watched the other patrons. In the opposite corner sat a group of middle-aged ladies chatting animatedly. Some of them had paperbacks with them, a book club perhaps. Some of them had probably led rich and complicated lives. If only he knew how to write about that. The coffee appeared in front of him. He poured in the sugar and stirred it. The spoon making a rhythmic sound on the periphery of the cup.

He looked outside. Was this where real life happened? Or was this an air-conditioned cocoon from real life. A place of solace where you went to escape that which haunted your days. Ashok sank back in his plush armchair and closed his eyes for what he felt was a second.

He was jolted awake by the sharp sound of thunder. Outside it had turned dark and the few scattered raindrops on the windowpane looked ready to turn into a biblical deluge. The coffee was cold and the café looked almost empty. His phone told him it was 8:30pm. The place would close in half an hour. Ashok moved for the door and opened it. The downpour convinced him this was a bad idea. Stuck, pondering miserably he heard a voice behind him.

“Excuse me?”

It was a girl in a floral dress with a transparent raincoat on top. With surprise he realized it was the same barista who had greeted him, probably getting off work.

“Do you need to share an umbrella?” she asked.