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I slept very late yesterday night. My mind was disturbed by the thoughts on a bright-brilliant future. I got a diary from a very reliable friend of my best friend. Poor fellow, he never knew that I have a very interesting habit of wasting my precious time on stories and poems. Vague but vivid ideas are dashing –dancing- in my mind now. The net result of his kind action is that I am losing my sleep for another day. They all call me their best writer. I am not so clear about the idea behind this.

I never cared my readers. A new diary always remained the worst of all temptations. So whenever I get one, I romance with it, make love to it, to produce a new generation of stories or poems. Hence I call her my wife. Now please don’t ask me why I don’t care my readers as long as you see me so possessive about her. I believe that every guy must be a bit selfish in this matter. Well, you are one among those cunning cats. But today I feel that I must speak to you, you being one who spends from your pocket just to waste your valuable time on my stories.

Whatever it is, awards and appreciation from the readers and critics are a must factor for a gentle handsome writer. So sincerely I never tried to correct your mistakes in life. I believe that God created man to do mistakes and learn from the mistakes to be afraid of the mistakes. Moreover I being one of God’s warm and calm creatures strictly believe that it is impossible to correct an individual, his nude naughty ideas and idiotic ethics. I don’t feel it worth talking at this moment. Why can’t we just leave this on him? Otherwise you would probably start thinking of your mistakes and discover yourself one of those mistakes. Then I might lose my job. I never meant to hurt your senses. I have a mild belief that you too have something called self-respect.

We are still living in this world of and for self-respect. A lot of things are happening in front of our closed eyelids. You don’t know that because your retina is yet reluctant to read it and you have a timid tummy, struggling to digest the spicy dish called self-respect. Neither the pancreatic juice nor the bile can help you in this. You have your parents, wife and children to look after. We are simply the Gods on earth. Knowing this fact I believe, nobody should call you wrong. You are the best. You are at least thinking of your family. But here is my friend who is struggling to save others from miseries when his home is on fire. He is good at offering the statues ‘beggar’ to a boy by giving him yet another coin from his pocket. Why can’t he give it to a prostitute who is at least earning from her sweat? Her sweat is sweet…not salty. Now am I trying to give the statues ‘prostitute’ to someone through my words! Of course yes, I am equally bad and insane.