In Insanity For Fame

By Kumar Siddharth

This is a story of an absurdly ambitious boy from Patna wishes something very big from life; who is insane for fame and dreams of stardom but has neither any exceptional talent nor godfather (not even a ‘proper’ father). But things didn’t simply stop here and that is why it becomes a story to be told.

• Language: English
• Publisher: One Point Six Technologies Pvt Ltd
• Release date: Jul 24, 2019
• ISBN: 9789388930789

Kumar Siddharth

Born in the family of doctors and engineers, to some extent, his destiny was decided to be the same. After graduating as an engineer, he realised his true calling and decided to pursue his dream of becoming a storyteller. To learn the craft, he completed hisstudied filmmaking from Xavier Institute of Communication, Mumbai. After that he has worked in a number of films, serials, ad films and documentaries. He currently resides in Mumbaiand continues to work with erudite personalities.

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CHAPTER – 1

DAD’S DAY OF DEATH

Exactly two days ago, my nineteenth birth anniversary was celebrated with an okay-type pomp and show. Only family members were present to pour their blessings out of their hearts (which kept many dreams and desires blanketed with no hope of fulfilment). My mom and dad stood by the Indian government plan of ‘Hum do, humare do’, and extracted only two precious gems – me and my twenty-six and a half year old sister, Sneha (whom I was forced to call ‘didi’, because of the quarter of a generation gap), kept our family limited in this, ‘go unlimited’ nation.

Today, when my ‘writo-meter’ pen was determined to scratch out a few pages, with my body and soul behind a bolted room; my family outside was mourning over the official certification of widowhood of my mother. My newly married sister was helping her newly widowed mother fight breathless attacks, which were over frequented and amplified by a continuous birth of tears from dark-circled, yet still beautiful eyes. Sneha’s husband was among the few initiative taking aged male members, and was discussing the next steps to be taken according to holy Hindu rituals. The overall scene was pretty similar to ‘after death’ scenes of movies or daily tele-serials. A few noticeable differences were – the expressions were neither choreographed nor camera-friendly, and no last minute surprises kept us waiting.

Breaking all our connections from the past, there, lying still as always, was my father. The exceptions this time were –

1. His cosy mattress was mercifully replaced by the hard mosaic floor.

2. His motionless eyes, which had rarely mirrored any scene for last eighteen plus years of my life, were finally resting at peace with their lids closed.

3. The heaving of his chest (which was observed by the minutest techniques) had decided not to be troubled by the task anymore.

It was early in the morning when our talkative maid rushed into our dining room with the unusual news of sudden sternness of medical equipment, which made my mother run in panic. When the medical officer and her friendly flies confirmed the coldness of my father’s body, everyone broke into tears, except me. I am not rude or emotionless. I have always prayed for my mother’s smile, but there was some disconnect here, not related to human nature. The dead body on the bed was my father, who was in his ‘as it is’ position from the day my memory still haunts me of. Now, I could answer the most difficult question (if you excuse the grammar) – What is your father? Today, I finally had the correct answer, down to the tense. "My father was a doctor."

In different stages, my eyes forced my brain to sketch out different outlines of my father. Each outline mingled with the previous one, to confuse the poor child and derail the faith from the rail of relationships. The foolish and stupid incident, witnessed by my village in Bihar suddenly changed everything, so now the very ticking of the second hand composed itself as an elegy.

Hummar Babuji, popularly known as ‘Doctor Saab’ in the locality had met with an accident when the tenth month milestone was reached by me. The story goes back to a dream my grandfather had had. A literal dream, I mean.

Thud-Thud

Mmhhnn…

The knock at the door screamed – Lets deal with ‘today’ first, ‘yesterday’ can be plucked at any moment of ‘tomorrow’.

Our maid entered with a tensed face. Her eyes had fresh tears. Sympathy and anxiousness in her body language added two drops of saline water to my eyes. The room chilled with an unwanted silence, and warmed with her words.

Baba, please console your mother. She is not in a position to withstand this terrible loss. Right now your mother needs you the most. Face the situation. Why are you hiding your tears behind closed doors?

My tongue stammered, and eyes avoided the encounter of that ordinary looking old servant, who was now arranging blankets and pillows in the messed up room. I walked out only to dash into one of my neighbours.

Siddharth! Your sister was calling you.

Hmm, I made a sound audible only to me. Lowering my gaze, I proceeded to the hall.

Be brave, my brother! Sit beside mummy. Sooth her somehow, otherwise she will fall ill, Sneha said in a commanding tone, and rested her right hand on my shoulder. That was the same hand that used to suffer miserably, every time my badshah was defeated in a game of sixty four blocks, with black and white shades.

Hmm, was my answer after a moderate pause, just audible to me again. This made me wonder why this voluntary expression was getting channelized through my brain.

On my way to mata Savitri, who’d failed to fetch back the life of Satyavan from the God of Deaths, I crossed a