By Humayun Malik
The almighty Eadhrum is weary of granting the prayers of greedy and cruel beings, corporeal and incorporeal, and wondering whether to cease the practice. While there’s joy and self-satisfaction through this charity, the justice and beauty are corrupted by the power of it. Facing the dilemma, as Eadhrum stops time in his court, his contemplation is interrupted by a human.
“O, Infinite Merciful, you never turn anyone away empty-handed,” the man prays, kneeling before him. “O, great Eadhrum, I want immortality.”
Eadhrum is surprised and entertained by this request. A human’s utmost prayer should be for the eternal happiness of Dhrumspace. Although the real prayer concealed in (almost) everyone’s mind is worldly happiness—money, land, other wealth--this human is not anywhere near those. His prayer is only for immortality—immortality in the real world.
He looks over the human’s proper importance. He is a writer, or rather a so-called writer. The human has yet to be famous as a writer. An idea then comes to Eadhrum and he says, “I can fulfill your wish of immortality only if an immortal writer recommends you.”
“What’s the requirement of this recommendation?”
“There’s a standard for the recipient of immotality.”
The man travels to the region of Dhrumspace, the place where the authors whose writings have become infamous reside.
He observes that each residence in Dhrumspace exists in such eternal peace that no frustration or grief can ever reach it. Everyone lives there with their absolute beauty. First, he knocks on a lovely dark blue door, and the one who opens it is Yasunari Kawabata.
When Kawabata speaks naturally the writer blurts out, “I’ve come to you for a recommendation so that I, too, can be immortal as a writer.”
Kawabata looks at the writer curiously. “Do you suffer such unbearable grief, disappointment, or melancholy, as Hemingway did, that can force you to commit suicide?”
“No.”
“Then how would you be able to write anything—a poem, a fiction, a drama that will be timeless?How can I help you then?” Kawabata asks, closing the door in the writer’s face.
The writer then seeks out Milan Kundera. After learning the reason for his visit, Kundera asks, “Are you so daring that you could have written against the fascism of your government?”
“Then, if like you, my citizenship was revoked, I would have to spend the rest of my life in exile!”
“Could you accept that?”
“Is it possible?” the man counters.
“Have you written anything like Blindness, The Waste land, or Hamlet?”
“No,” he admits, embarrassed.
“Even a sentence, like: ‘Life’s...it is a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing.’”
He keeps silent for a few amoments, then says, “But I’m so popular…”
“Are you, like Benjamin Malaysia,” Kundera interrupts, “for the rights of deprived, oppressed people, able to rebel by writing a poem for which you could have been hung? And from this sacrifice, mankind will be inspired to fight against injustice.”
“I’m not a so-called revolutionary!”
“A revolutionary’s poetry may not be timeless if his poem is not also aesthetically rich.”
Kundera, too, closes the door in the writer’s face. The writer then seeks out Federico García Lorca.
Lorca, like all the immortal writers before, wants to know the man’s qualifications for immortality. “Are you a writer of any defeat, grief, or killing,from which blood flows continuously?” Lorca asks.
“No, no, and no.”
And with his answer, Lorca, too, closes the door in the writer’s face.
Obsessed with his quest, the writer knocks on yet another door. Kawabata’s idea: Hemingway.
“Were you the victim of such violence, such injustice, which made your world a hell?” Hemingway’s bitter voice asks the writer.
“Not even that.”
“Then what did you write with!”
“With joy and beauty!” the writer yells at the closing door.
The writer searches his mind and comes up with one last possibility, John Keats, and knocks on yet another door.
“Have you ever found the absolute beauty in which you were ready to blend in or vanish?” Keats asks him.
“Why?” he uneasily asks back.
“What did you write that could grant you immortality?” Upon noticing the writer’s hestitancy, Keats closes the last of the doors in Dhrumspace.
The writer returns to Eadhrum’s court, upset, and pledges himself fully to the Eadhrum in one last bid for immortality, “Only you are the great, generous, great giver…I’ve already written so much, and in its return… and above all you are almighty—!”
Eadhrum interrupts the writer. “Even that power of mine is not unbounded. Behold,” Eadhrum points to the mortal, “I’ve given you as far as I could.”
Back at home, the writer is alerted that his account balance has grown to an immense sum. His writings, now popular, are selling fast. His residential tower now touches the sky but still cannot reach Dhrumpuspace. His achievements all are mortal and eventually worthless.
Bangladeshi writer Humayun Malik’s writings are published in local and international magazines. He has 25 published books. Malik received degrees in law and information science. He was a journalist, government officer, and university teacher, now an advocate. Awards: Fair and Lovely, Daily News Paper Literary Award, Fiction Writer’s Center Award.
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