The Kind Critic

Mr. Rajat Sen, the eminent author and critic was in his room. He held a burning cigarette in his right hand and the mild smoke in his mouth gave him a pleasing effect in his mind. The odour of burnt tobacco reached the core of his sensation, stimulating his feelings, nerves and sinews. He was tired after writing a book review of a new writer. The new writer was the cousin of his dear friend Ashish Chakrabarty. Let us see what happened before.

‘“Rajat, Riju, my cousin, you know, nowadays became very much interested in short-story. A very good writer, hmm… Didn’t you see his last story which was published in ‘The Story-teller’?”’
“I missed it, I think”, Mr. Sen said casually.
“Oh, you missed a great story Rajat. It was superb in style, in language, in construction, in theme, in…”
“In fine, in everything, I guess?”, Mr. Sen said it, smiling contemptuously.
Mr. Chakrabarty smiled, satisfied. “Now you got it”, he said and continued, “I’ll be glad if you write a book review of his new novel, ‘Ferocious Love’, he shouted at last, leaving the sofa.”
“Nonsense!”, he said in a low voice.
“Sorry?”
“No, nothing. I’m sorry Ashish. Take your seat, be quiet.”
“You are not saying that you are going to refuse me, I think?”, Mr. Sen asked anxiously.
“Extremely sorry. I didn’t like the name.”
“Oh, come on. It’s love, the never-ending love in the air. Oh, the soothing one, oh the coolness of ice-cream, the passion of joy, the ardent, tormenting, irresistible sense of…”
“Ashish, I’m serious. Stop it!”
“Please, Rajat. He is my only cousin. I promised him that….”
Mr. Sen thought a bit. Ashish helped him a lot when he was in hospital and was suffering from a serious a disease of lungs. He started to think what to do, biting the nail of his forefinger.
“Please, please Rajat. He will be very much disappointed if you refuse. You please read it once. I know you’re a busy man but…”
“Ok, all right. I will write. But I must be fair.”
“But he is a new writer, Rajat. He needs some…”
“It’s enough, Ashish. You may go now. A good novel and a good writer must have sense of humour, sympathy and true love. I don’t know whether your cousin has it or not. But you must have a limit of request and a certain level of courtesy. Now, I’ll be pleased if you leave me alone.”, Mr. Sen said disgustedly.
“Ok, ok, Bye, good day”, Mr. Chakrabarty left his house disappointedly.
“Strange behaviour. What happened with him?”, Mr. Chakrabarty thought.





So, he now heaved a sigh of relief.
“Oh, finish! I finished it”, he continued, ‘…just nonsense. When will these young-folks understand that love doesn’t mean attraction toward anyone’s body? Love is to love the inner one, the impalpable sensation that prevails in everyone. When will they know that…”
The telephone started to ring. His thought-wave smashed against this sound. He frowned at the telephone, saying “Nonsense”, the only familiar word he knew to express his disgust. Then he rushed towards the telephone, held it and said in a serious gruff voice, “Who is it?”
“Hello, I’m Subarna, friend of Suparna. Will you please…”
“She is not in home.”
“But she told me to call at 11 am. And I think I’m hearing her voice, now. She should be in your home, Mr. Sen. Please check it”
“What? Am I a liar?’
“I didn’t mean that but I just want to…”
“Shut up!” He hung up.
His wife Suparna was rebuking her little son Piklu. He was of nine years. She came hurriedly, hearing the shout.
“What happened? I heard my name. Anyone called me?”, she said giving a strange look.
“Oh, here you are. Where is my lunch? My train will depart at 1 pm. I must leave as soon as possible”, he said disgustedly.
Sriparna smiled awkwardly and then replied, “I’m making it ready. Just a minute.”
“I’m living in a hell. None thinks of others, very few people read good books. My God! Yesterday, even Piklu told me that his aim is to be an engineer. Oh, God! Save me.”


When the launch was finished Mr. Sen came outdoors hurriedly. He held a handkerchief in his right hand.
“Oh, it’s terrible hot here”, he said, wiping out the sweat of his face and the shouted, “Ricksha---w”
A rickshaw-puller, aged probably 35 years, came and taking Mr. Sen he started to pull the rickshaw.
Now he lit another cigarette and started to smoke. Having a pleasant puff at it, he muttered, “Hmm, these new writers never think of the poor”. Having another puff he continued, “… hmm! Of the poor. See this rickshaw-puller. Oh, this poor fellow! What a tormenting life he leads! Be it bitter cold or the sizzling summer-day they work hurriedly. For what? For a little money.” He wiped out the sweat of his face and again continued, “..Yea! For a little money. Why people don’t be a bit generous? Why the government is not paying heed?”


The railway station was very near to his house. He handed 3 rupees to the rickshaw-puller. The man complained, “5 rupees, sir. The fair is 5 rupees.”
“What? I come here regularly and pay only 3 rupees”, he said the word ‘regularly’ as a habit.
“You come regularly at the railway-station, sir?”, the man said, smiling.
Mr. Sen said, stammering a bit, “ N-no! Actually, I… I mean… I come very often”
“No, no. It’s unfair. The fair is…”
“Damn it!”, Mr. Sen proceeded, his shirt wet with perspiration. It was a scorching noon.
In the platform, he met some of his fans. These ardent fans mobbed him to take autographs. A blind beggar asked him for alms. He gave 1 rupee and again busied himself in giving autographs with great satisfaction and happiness. He muttered, “We, the authors, live only for this joy. Oh, ‘what a joyance rains upon me’ when I see these people. Ah!”
It was 12.50 pm when he was aware of the fact that his train would depart after 10 minutes. He rushed to the A.C first class coach hurriedly. The drooping figure of that beggar who was sitting in the platform prevented him to enter into the coach. Only 2 minutes were left in his hand as he had taken enough time to find his compartment. However this busy man, this sensible man became a bit disgusted when he saw this man. So he said-
“Oh, you nonsense! Let me in”, he shouted.
The blind man understood with his sixth sensory organ that someone is standing nearby. He held his hand up to take alms.
Now Mr. Sen, a very sensitive and generous man, kicked the man in his back and shouted in a louder voice, “You scoundrel! I gave you and you are asking again!! And also not paying heed to my words, not letting me in!”. He entered into the compartment angrily.





This poor fellow of the platform was not only blind but also deaf.