Mobile phones then were yet to evolve beyond simple text messaging and calling devices, though the handsets and pre-paid calling plans were affordable for anyone earning a modest income of 15,000–20,000 INR per month. Shiva was delighted to read a classified ad that called for someone with good handwriting to write letters. The employer was an old Parsi gentleman named Dinshaw Cooper, who lived in the sprawling Parsi Colony near Byculla, Mumbai, manned by vigilant security.
The terms of engagement were clear: every hour of the written page would be paid with 150 INR in cash. And the act of writing entailed copying the contents from a specified source. For Shiva, the prospect of getting the remuneration in cash was too tempting to ignore.
Scouring classified ads gave Shiva a certain confidence that if things became worse, he would still find work as a copywriter in any small to mid-sized ad agency. Thinking about the present opportunity, Shiva felt this would be the right starting point for a freelance writing career since writing jobs, in any capacity and form would stoke his writer’s hearth. Also, the long hand would continue to be in demand for a variety of reasons, from transcribing audio files to translating official documents.
Shiva had passed the screening test effortlessly; he knew he would. Since he had bagged the trophy for best handwriting across the state while he was still in Xth grade. All through his college days, Shiva often wondered if there existed a job that required you to have impressive handwriting.
The other conditions of this contractual employment were a non-disclosure clause, a non-negotiable situation where if his work was not up to the satisfaction he could be fired, and the last mandatory requirement was valid identity proof such as a driver's license or PAN card that would be collected before the commencement of the daily task and returned at the end of the assignment every day. At this point, the Aadhar Cards, which are now commonplace and contain unique identification numbers for every citizen, must have been in the pre-conceptual stage, somewhere caught in the presentation files pending approval stages.
Shiva loved watching the many facets of the maximum city that continued to fuel the aspirations of dreamers in every walk of life and fascinate him, especially this side of the town that was not in any way a part of the media hubs scattered in some other Mumbai suburbs. He instinctively knew stories were hidden in every character and wished to soak it all in.
A week went by and Shiva proved he was good at reproducing, to an almost identical degree, the curves, turns, and lines of any sample writing given to him. Every time the elderly Parsi approved of his day’s work, a surge of achievement would run through him. He felt happy to be a part of a commitment to fulfil someone’s dream. As a result, his employer had now raised his remuneration to 180 INR. Now Shiva too strived to squeeze in an extra hour as overtime. This extra income was taking care of all his daily overhead expenses in Mumbai's huge, hydra-headed metropolis. Most importantly, now he could manage the frequent visits to network with fellow writers at the Film Writers Association.
At the start of this assignment, Shiva was also informed about its purpose. It was to preserve the contents of some precious text, albeit only in hand-written form, in someone’s fond memory. The daily routine was now turning out to be a perfect cue for Shiva to look for more freelance opportunities he could squeeze into his itinerary.
Though Shiva eagerly looked forward to putting his head down and diligently copying the text on clean sheets of A4 paper every day, the ambiance of the big hall made him feel unoriented. The hall with its jaded green walls seemed like a collection of islands with too many things stuffed across them and appeared clumsy and messy for someone like the astute Dinshaw, who belonged to the immaculate clan of the Parsis. A strange odor, probably of some medicine, that seemed to emanate from the adjoining room always enveloped the main hall, giving it a clinical feel. Dinshaw’s other quirky behavior caused Shiva a lot of unease. Every day, for the entire duration of the assignment, the quirky Parsi ensured the entrance of his house was thoroughly bolted from the inside.
But it soon became clear that the arrangement was in trouble. Suddenly, Dinshaw Cooper became more demanding in terms of the quality of writing. Now, the sample specimens were changing rapidly, and Shiva was expected to keep pace with reproducing those without any errors within a stipulated time.
Over the last fortnight, Shiva knew he had given little room to complain about his efforts. And now he also realized how effeminate his writing had started to appear. In that flash of a moment, Shiva saw something he had completely missed-the content of what he was bringing to life on paper. He read it again. Yes, it was a painful confession of a girl madly in love with life, poetry, and ice cream and who cared deeply above anything else for her old uncle and aunt. For their sake, she was ready to bequeath her inherited 3-bedroom house-the same house that was witness to her wonderful growing-up years. The same house where she wished to breathe her last. And the same house, in whose grand hall sat the full-of-life Shiva, who dreamt of capturing different characters in this vast city with fathomless dreams.
Today was the last page. Shiva was waiting for Dinshaw to emerge from the adjoining room carrying the ritualistic glass of Roohafza*. But today, Shiva was in a tearing hurry and didn’t care much about the bland sherbet. All that was left now was to collect the final payment. So, after waiting for five more minutes, Shiva got up to leave and gently called for Dinshaw. After calling out three-four times with no response from his employer, Shiva thought it better to slightly peek in the next room and bid Dinshaw adieu.
There, Dinshaw sat on a messy bed with a gentle smile on his face, feeding melted ice cream to someone dressed in a flower-printed flowing gown with golden hair. She was seated in an armchair with a book resting against her chest. The book cover had a picture of the noted Hindi film lyricist Javed Akhtar on it. However, the human figure resting in the chair—probably the young girl was all but a heap of lifeless skeletons.
---End---
*a rose-flavored cool drink also known as Sherbet
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