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You cannot put a good man down for long, I declare. Next time you want my poetry to grace your rag you better cough up a respectable advance garnished with a polite letter… If only I could wag my finger at you in person!

With a flourish becoming of a litterateur on the make I sign each epistle with a poison dipped nib. I make a mental note of dropping these letters on my way to the SAPS enclave.

I change into my nattiest get-up and adjust my golf cap to a jaunty angle.  A dash of Charlie for that final touch. 

Picking up the two envelopes – my visas to international stardom – I tuck them into my pocket making sure that both are peeking out for the world to see and set out for the SAPS conclave.  It will be my last trip, of course.  With my nose in the air, I turn into the dusty neglected grounds of what the Administration swears is a children’s park — the venue of every SAPS meeting.

But wait! There is something quite abnormal here.  Instead of the usual eight or ten woebegones, every Sad Abandoned Poet in the Union Territory of Chandigarh plus the full contingents from Mohali and Panchkula are in attendance.

The shock hits me bang on the nose with the ferocity of a prizefighter’s right straight!  All are jauntily dressed.  All are reeking of Charlie.  From every pocket or purse two eye-catching envelopes are peeking out nonchalantly.  Yes, the envelopes were the exact replicas of the ones I had received.

It was too late to retrieve my poisonous epistles to the Editors’ Brotherhood.

-----The End-----

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 Enjoyed mingling with the SAD poets, their genteel-ly simmering rivalries, and the bit about the jauntily perched cap and the dabs of 'Charlie'!

Dr. Iqbal judge | May 31, 2010