Songs of loneliness...

“Can you write a song about loneliness?” asked the producer.

“What kind of loneliness?” The poet asked back, enforcing absurdness in the environment. The producer had a big question mark on his face as if he wished to ask – What the hell do you mean by kind of loneliness? But he didn’t ask and said, simply, “Loneliness is loneliness. Simple. Plain.”

“A hopeful or a hopeless one? A happy or a sad one? A desired or an imposed one? A bored one or a creative one? Loneliness caused when the world leaves you? Or the loneliness caused when you part with your soul?” The poet elaborated his question ignoring the answer as if it was never offered.

Now the puzzled look on the producer’s face was turning into annoyance which he successful hid.

The poet went on, “When the world leaves me, I can hope that someday it will return; it will revoke its imposition. I can be happy if I try to be, if I realize that no one’s but my own company is all I need to lead a happy life. That’s hopeful loneliness – An optimistic idea. When I sell my soul, I buy lifetime loneliness. And how long can I sustain without my own soul, my own spirit? How can I kill the permanent sadness it breeds? That’s hopeless loneliness – A pessimistic reality.” He paused to study the listener’s mind, and continued, “If one parts with the world to be with his soul, that’s fantastic. If he part with his soul to be with the world, he is the loneliest person in the crowd… So what you want?”


By now, the producer was totally irritated. He said. “Look Mister… What ever your name is! I don’t understand what all shit you are talking about. I am producing an album with all genres of emotions and thought if we could have a song on loneliness - A simple, sweet song. But it seems, for you, loneliness is a fairly complex emotional state than it appears to me. And in such case, I would not like to use any of your rubbish philosophical poetry. You can please leave.”

“Thank you, sir. You saved me.”

The poet left. The producer did not understand why he was thanked, but he was feeling better. He called in the manager.

“What kind of people you invite these days for the interview?”

“Why? What happened, sir?”

“Damn!! This guy is a bastard who makes every thing complex and thinks he is a genius.”

“I am sorry, sir. But he was recommended by a friend of mine who is a culture critic in The Indian magazine, the best Indian daily. Besides, I read his poems. I did not understand much, but they appeared to be good. Also, this guy needed a job so…”

“We are here, not for charity, my dear manager. We are doing business with a sole reason of making profit, and that can’t be achieved with something that just appears to be good. Please keep this in mind before you call for the next guy. Ok?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You can leave.”

The producer released his album after two months. It could only become an average album, generating too little profit. It did have a song on loneliness.



A year passed since then. It was a sunny Sunday morning. While going through the various segments of The Indian magazine, the producer found one man omnipresent. His name was Aftab Khan.

“The nation goes crazy over Mr. Aftab Khan,” reported the front page.

“Aftab Khan – A real gem in the world of Indian poetry,” said the culture column.

“A good product always generates good business. This has been proved, once again, by Mr. Aftab Khan,” informed the business page.

“I felt like committing suicide while listening to the first song but the second song made me the happiest person on earth. Thank you, Aftab,” a bachelor, in his early thirties, said in the city column.

And the page three was full of the functions organized to felicitate Aftab for his first album. The album was named ‘Loneliness’. It had just two songs, first – The Pessimist, second – The Optimist.

The producer phoned the manager.

“Why I never heard of this guy, named Aftab, before?”

“You did, sir. Some twelve months ago.”

“And?”

“And you said, ‘This guy is a bastard who makes every thing complex and thinks he is a genius.’”

“Ok.”

The producer hung up the call.


In one of those countless page three parties, the producer happened to meet Aftab, who looked quite bored and a bit uncomfortable. The producer approached him, “Hello, Mr. Aftab. I am very sorry for that day. I tell you I was in a real bad mood. You know how hectic the job of a producer is. Please accept my apologies.” And he grinned like a kid who has committed a silly mistake and waiting to be forgiven by his mother.

“Which day?”
“Oh! The day we had a chat over the matters of loneliness.”

“Have we met? Oh, please excuse me. I have a really bad memory. Yesterday I forgot to put on my socks and came like that to the party. I was so embarrassed that I made a point to take care of it today.” Aftab pulled up his pants to show the socks with a feeling of achievement over his forgetfulness. He had black in left and brown in right feet. The producer wished to laugh but avoided.

Aftab was embarrassed again. To change the topic, he asked, “By the way, what were we talking about?”

“We were talking about the day we first met, sir. You narrated your concept of loneliness a year ago. What a wonderful concept it is. Unfortunately we could not do the album together, then, for some technical reasons. But I would love to work with you the next time you are ready with your concept. I give an absolute freedom to an artist’s creativity.”

“I think, I can recall that day, sir.” Aftab smiled, letting the producer feel ashamed of the fact that he tried to use one’s forgetfulness to his own profit, and continued, “To detail is not to increase the complexity of a concept. It is to make things clearer, more accurate, more absolute. Good that you said no that day. Its better not to create something whose use you don’t understand, to produce something whose meaning remains a vague concept to you.”

“But we are the best in this business. I suggest you should take up our offer.”

“For?”

“We will make you richer.”

“And that is what your business is - to make money. I am sorry; I am not motivated by money. My only motivation is my work. You may be great in the business of selling poetry but you are a handicap when it comes to producing a right creation. And what is the purpose of a good seller if there is no good object to sell?” he said, in such a toneless manner that the producer could not feel offended how hard he wished to.

Aftab smiled and turned to the party. He looked around to find a person who was least hypocrite in the whole gathering and he saw a kid sitting on a bench near the fountain, lost in falls of water. He walked up to him, smiled and said, “Hello”. The kid smiled back.