The Rich Man's Son

Once upon a time in India, there was a rich man's son who had a burning desire to write, so he asked his father to buy pencil and paper for him to write with. The father was happy to oblige his son, and when the son received the materials, he sat down to write a story. The boy got a paragraph or two written, but then when he read what he had written, he thought that it was not so good as it might be. He thought that he could do better work if he had a better quality pen to write with, so he went to his father.

"How goes the writing, Skandar?" asked his father who had named his son after Alexander the Great.

"So-so, father, but I'm sure I could do better if I had better quality paper and one of those new mechanical pencils or a ball point pen. The son loved gadgets.

"Sure, son," said the rich man and he brought his son a ream of the finest 20 pound rag paper and the newest, most deluxe mechanical pencil, inlaid with mother-of-pearl.

Back in his room that afternoon, with care and deliberation, the rich man's son wrote another paragraph, a pretty good one, with some nice phrases about the opal moon and the piercing cries of the night birds in it. A servant girl was dusting in his room, and she glanced over his shoulder and smiled. He turned on her angrily.

"You're laughing at me!" he accused her.

"No! No!" the girl protested.

The boy stormed out of his room and went to his father.

"Fire that girl, father. Make her leave. She laughed at my writing," the young man said. "I cannot have one like her criticizing me.

The father was loath to let the girl go, but his son was insistent, and there would be no peace until he did.

"But I don't even know how to read," the girl protested. Even so, she was soon banished from the house, and her bundled possessions were tossed over the wall at her.

Now, even though his father had sent the girl away, the young man's equilibrium had been so disturbed by the thought of her laughing at him that he could barely write.

Next day, the father asked, as usual,"How goes the writing, son?"

The son answered sheepishly,"Not so well, father. Since that girl laughed at me, my creativity has dried up. Could she have put a curse or spell upon me?"

"I do not believe that she has," the father said judiciously. "It is a pity that I had to let her go. I am told she was a cheerful girl and a willing worker."

"Oh," said the boy, but he changed the subject because his conscience felt guilty though he wasn't sure why. "I didn't really think that she had. But, father, the Mogul of Peshawar was a very fine poet and I have read that the crystal pen that he used to compose his finest sonnets of love is for sale at a shop on Chaudhury Street. Surely if I had that magnificent pen, I, too, could write a masterpiece."

His father who could not find it in his heart to deny him his heart's desire, purchased the pen for his son the very next day and presented it to him along with some very fine cream colored paper.

"Oh, it is so beautiful, father," said the young man.

"Now, write your masterpiece, my son,"said the father.

A few months later, the boy's mother died. This was a very sad time for both the father and the young man. Skandar found some relief from his feelings in the act of writing. He shared one of the poems with his father. His father wept.

Time passed. Skandar did not write every day and on hot days, he got far too sleepy to write anything good. Some friends of his came over to his home.

"Come on, take a break, Skandar. Let's go for a picnic in the high hills and play ball and eat and drink and not be serious about anything at all for days and days and days." That was what his best friend from school, Julian, said. Julian wrote poems from time to time.

"Put away your sissy pens and paper. We'll go boar hunting. That's sport for a real man," boasted Mohan who was Julian's friend. Now Skandar didn't like Mohan. Skandar thought Mohan was a bully and a wastrel, but he was a big man in size and other men looked up to him, and Skandar didn't have the courage to defend his writing, so he just acted very cool as if nothing had been said to upset him. He just said,"All right, let's go hunting. Count me in."

They were gone a week. When Skandar sat down to write the day after his return, the words did not flow well at all. He was out of practice and he couldn't concentrate. He was thinking how angry he was with Julian and Mohan, when there was the sound of a motorcar coming in the front drive. It was Mohan and Julian. Damn. Was he never to have peace? He went to his window

"How about a rousing game of lawn darts, Skandar? I've got such a hangover from last night, it's the only sport I can handle," Julian called up to him. Mohan was already sipping from a bottle of champagne.

"Have some?" he offered. "It's Moet."

"Sure," said Skandar,"I'll be right down.

Skandar spent the rest of the afternoon playing lawn games and cards and drinking champagne. In the evening, they went to a nightclub where Mohan was a good friend of the hostess. There were girls there. Not very nice girls, Skandar thought, but Julian and Mohan kept smiling and drinking like it was all such a good joke, but Skandar felt sick to his stomach.

"I don't feel so good. I have to go home."

"Rich boy can't hold his liquor," mocked Mohan.

"Pay no attention, Skandar," said Julian. "He wasn't raised right, but that's why I like him. See you tomorrow, Skandar?"

"Sure," said Skandar. "Tomorrow."

The next morning, Skandar had a splitting headache and was in no mood to write, and by the time several strong cups of tea had banished his headache and he was in the mood, his friends showed up again.

"Let's go to the pictures," suggested Julian. "There's a movie starring Ava Gardner at the Bijou."

"The woman has the body of a goddess," said Mohan.

"Sounds like fun," said Skandar and it was fun. But another day had passed and Skandar didn't write and the same thing happened every day for awhile until he fell out of the habit of writing and spent almost all of his time on sports and parties and on his social life. He had become such an idle young man that even his father who was very loving and indulgent became exasperated with his behavior. But because his father was wise and diplomatic, he said to his son, one morning over breakfast,"Skandar, I know you are meant to be a writer, but I am getting older and my business is getting to be too much for me to run alone. I could really use your help."

Skandar replied,"Father, I am so glad that you realize that writing is my first love, but of course, I feel a strong duty to you, and I am happy to be of service to you in your business."

It was the strangest thing though, the minute he agreed to put the work for his father ahead of his writing, he felt an odd feeling of relief.

Skandar began to spend part of his day helping his father deal with machinery breakdowns, defective raw materials and poorly trained workers. Whatever needed doing, he did.

Skandar proved to have a good head for business. When he succeeded in business, his friends were complimentary.

"Skandar's got a head for business, just like his father. Skandar's heart swelled with pride.

Sometimes some of his poet friends from the old days would show up to read new stories and poems and Skandar would take an almost drunken pleasure in the words. He had odd feelings of jealousy and self-disgust when they visited.

"And what are you working on, Skandar?"

"Not too much lately," he'd say diffidently. "I'm gathering material."

"Skandar, you have got to read this book. A new author, a very good writer- -Maryam Rajakapot. Haven't you heard of her work? We never see you at the bookstores anymore. I know you're busy. We just miss hearing your writing. Come on, drop by. I'll buy you a cup of tea," said Julian.

"You know my father needs my help."

Skandar was glad when they left. He didn't even glance at the book his friends had left him.

His writer friends left, shaking their heads. "What a shame. Skandar has changed. Lost his direction. Sold out."

Skandar's father found the volume the next day and read it. He cried when he read it. "It is a fine story and so true, so very true," he said to himself. " I will save this for Skandar."

Time passed. Skandar married a fine woman and fathered three children, two sons and a daughter.

A few years later, Skandar's father grew ill, a cancer of the stomach. He summoned Skandar to his sick bed.

"I am dying, son. I love you very much. I leave you my business, but before I die, I want to leave you this advice. I have watched you over the years. You care too much what others think about you, but this I know and you can believe me because I am your father and I have your best interests at heart. Even though you may have forgotten, this I know, that you were meant to be a writer. I know you are married and are busy with making a living and caring for the needs of your family, but writing is and has always been your first love. Whatever happens, I want you to promise me that you will start writing again."

Now the truth was that Skandar did not want to write again. He had such terrible feelings of guilt for all the time he had wasted in his life, that it was almost unbearable for him to face the truth.

"Promise me, Skandar," his father asked, and he asked so insistently, but so kindly that Skandar could not refuse even though when he said, "I promise, father," he felt as though his heart had been ripped and it was torn and bleeding and tears filled his eyes. But despite the pain he felt making this promise, the look of peace and joy that played on his father's face was worth it.

"Now I can die in peace," said Skandar's father and they sat together for a long time hand in hand.

After the burial and the reading of the will, one of his father's clerks from the office handed Skandar a wooden box.

"Your father wanted you to have this."

The box was intricately decorated with inlay of mahogany, birch, rosewood, ebony and polished to a high gloss. When Skandar was finally home, alone in his study, he opened the box. Inside, he saw the cream rag paper, the mechanical pencil, and the crystal pen that had belonged to the great poet of love, the Maharajah of Peshawar. Skandar's father had saved the manuscripts of his childhood and youth. There were the paragraphs about the moon and the night birds, and the poem he had written after his mother had died.

"I remember your white hands, mother, when I see the breasts of the gulls in the sky."

He wept and remembered his promise to his father. He took out pen and paper and wrote a poem about his father and his own wasted days and lost loves and by the time he finished, an hour later, his tears had dried and he felt at peace. However, when he read again what he had written, he cried again, because it was very beautiful and very true. Later when he was calmer, he looked deeper in the box and found a copy of a book. It was The Rich Man's Son by Maryam Rajahkapot. He began to read.

"Once upon a time in India, there was a rich man's son who had a burning desire to write..."