Anniversary special

This week I complete the 200th run. Of my column Talespin, that is. Four years ago, when I was a brand-new resident of Jordan, I did not realise how far this literary journey would take me. 

I took up the job on a whim. I liked the newspaper office, the friendly staff and the enthusiastic editor. Besides, the elderly doorman who escorted me into a lift, on the day of my interview, had the kindest smile I have ever seen. He wished me luck in a language I did not understand. But the sentiments behind the wish were unmistakable.

Once there, I naively floated various random ideas, which were easily approved. I was asked to send some pieces, in the next several days. I went home, and spun a few tales, typed them as neatly as I could, and handed them in. 

A picture was requested of me, to add to my byline. I mailed them the one that I had in the saved folder of my computer. It was clicked in Zanzibar on a windy morning. I was wearing dark sunglasses, and a part of my face was concealed behind my windswept locks.

It was a perfect snap because it did not even look like me. Unless you enlarged the photograph, and peered rather closely at it, but who had the inclination to do that? I loved it. Also, it gave me the added assurance of being able to write incognito. I mean, who wanted to be roughed up by an irate manager after he read my rather uncomplimentary musings on his restaurant?

But, the subeditor rejected my favourite photo, at first glance. Entire face not visible, was his cryptic response to my melodramatic pleas of, why, O why? I took two days to get over my sulk, and then sent him a picture of myself in front of the Qutub Minar, wearing an artificial smile. This one was accepted, and ran for the first two years and then, as often happens with major reshufflings, my article was moved to a new page, minus my mug shot.

But by now I had a small following of regulars, who did not care if my visage accompanied the write-ups or not. All they looked forward to was my weekly spin, on the spin. Actually, look forward is a very mild term here. I can today understand the dilemma of people, whose creations become larger than the creator.

If, for any reason, I were unable to provide the addictive dose, I got a barrage of brickbats from far and near. The worst accusation I got was from one of my so-called fans in San Diego, who accused me of spoiling his entire week, when he could not find my column online.

But the bouquets were greater in number. It humbled me. Always! Difficult to name all of them here, but for those, who in a relentlessly consistent manner, reviewed my work, and gave feedback, here is a big thank you.

The inspector general of police in Calcutta, the ex army officer, presently an organic farmer in Mhow, the two brilliant college professors, who are also real-life sisters, the popular lady teacher in Jamshedpur, and the vivacious one in Chandigarh, the cheerful live-wire in Texas, the commercial attaché at the American embassy, the businessman whose daughter is getting married in January, and the erudite booklover of Chennai.

From a writer to her readers: Shukran Jazeelan.