Finally that moment, for which I've been waiting
breathlessly for so long, when I would hold the first copy of my book on my
hands, arrived on 5th July.
My publisher had couriered me 5 copies but I didn't get
to see them till quite late in the night when I returned home. I could have
torn apart the parcel immediately, but due to some unknown reasons, I delayed
that moment I was dying to see. I took longer than usual to wash my face,
change my dress. For no reason I turned on the washing machine, something I
rarely do at 11:30 in the night. I checked my mails and even responded to some
very unimportant ones which could have waited few days. Now I
don’t even remember the other insignificant things I did that night, just to
kill time.
And then when I couldn't invent anything further, I opened the
parcel, slowly. It was wrapped unnecessarily with multiple layers. Any other
time I would have got irritated peeling each layer of packaging. But somehow I
felt good at that moment, just because it delayed the entire process.
And finally, the book was in my hand. I can’t recall now,
how exactly I felt holding it, staring at it, inhaling the fragrance of the
newly bound papers, turning the pages, glancing through the words and letters
I've seen so many times. I remained awake more than half of the night doing
nothing…
Till that moment I'd been luxuriating over the very thought of holding the book in my hand for the first time. I'd remained awake many a night, for long time, thinking what I would be doing exactly when that long awaited moment would finally come, when I would hold in my hand the baby I'd carried within me for more than five years. But when the moment did come finally, suddenly I was overwhelmed with a remorse, an anxiety, an apprehension. Till that time I'd been happy with the satisfaction of writing a book. But the moment the book was out, the thought of promoting it, selling it and hearing from people how they liked, dawned in me, like a Sphinx rising from beneath the sand that had hidden it since ages. Suddenly I realized that my celebration had been premature. Till that time I'd just done something selfish, just for me, for my own pleasure, for my own satisfaction. It would be only now that I would know if I'd really done something for others, something that could make others happy. This anxiety - whether others would like my book - became so intense that I forgot about the celebration. I felt as if I'd just started a marathon and I was already feeling weary...
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