BY P. B. SATHE, B.A., L.L.M., M.R.A.S. ¹

"Tuck, Tuck, Tuck, Hullo, are you in, Prabhakar ?" I knocked at the door, and enquired.

Prabhakar was my friend from childhood. We were in the same primary school and continued our studies in the Amraoti High School together. We matriculated in the same year and joined the same college in Poona. Prabhakar was considered to be a very brilliant student indeed. He used to write short stories and poems and these used to be published in different magazines. Prabhakar's photograph had also once been published in a special issue of one magazine along with his short story. The financial position of Prabhakar's family was not very happy. He was very fastidious. He had taken his photograph from the best photographic studio by paying rather exorbitant rates and had sent it for publication. He always felt that he was a gifted poet and born writer. He was conscious of his abilities. I did not like this, but apart from this, he was really a loving friend.

"Hullo, Prabhakar, what are you at?" said I.

Prabhakar was sitting at his writing table. He turned round.

"Hullo, come on, Wasudeo" said he, and pushed his curly hair from off his broad forehead.

"O! how are you out at such an odd time in the afternoon?" said Prabhakar.

"Good gracious" said I, "Is this afternoon? It is past 5-30, my good friend. Did you not realise what the time was? You writers are very strange people indeed!"

"What do you say, Wasu? Is that 5-30?" said Prabhakar, and wiped his glasses. "Good heavens! I do not know how time passed. I sat at the table at 1-30 and 4 hours have passed since then!"

"But, Prabhakar, what are you at? Can I see what you are writing?" and I moved to the table.

"O, No," said Prabhakar. "You cannot see the papers. A guest cannot come into the kitchen and test the dishes before they are served."

"Enough of that, Prabhakar. Pray let me see what you are writing. You write nice stories and that is why I am so anxious to see what you are writing. Would you at least let me know what you are writing about?"

"Yes, I may oblige you by doing so", said Prabhakar and he again wiped his glasses. "Do you know the well-known magazine, Vihar ?"

"Yes" said I.

"The learned Editor of that magazine has asked me to write a novel for it. You know the Editor of the magazine, that well-known gentlemen, Mr. Apte. He is going to publish my novel this year as a prize book to the subscribers of his periodical. How do you like the idea?"

"Oh, Lo. Our Prabhakar then is going to come before the world as a novelist. Well, Prabhakar, let me tell you I really love to read your stories," said I.

"And really do you do so," he peered through his glasses at me and cast on me a wondering look. His eyes began to sparkle with delight.

"Do you really do so?" Prabhakar again said.

"Yes, I do" said I "I really like your stories. I read your stories published in Manoranjan so often. Prabhakar, I really think you are going to be a very great writer indeed, but I hope you will not forget a friend like me."

Prabhakar was looking at the ceiling: perhaps he might be thinking of his future greatness as an author. After a short time he laughed.

"Have you finished your nonsense?" said Prabhakar.

"You may call my speech nonsense," said I "I cannot write nice love-stories like you. I cannot even write good answers to the questions set in the examination. Sometimes I do write letters to my father, but they are very formal."

"And what about those letters addressed to Mrs. Wasudeo?" said Prabhakar, and laughed a mischievous laugh.

"My wife is a girl of the old type. She needs one hour to read a postcard and two hours to write it and with all that . . .

"Enough of this," said Prabhakar "You are getting a naughty boy. You are really a bookworm. You have absolutely no idea what romance means."

"I do not care to know what romance means, but tell me please what novel you are writing and would you not stop your writing now?" said I.

"No, No," said Prabhakar. "Today is the 15th of September. The special issue of Vihar is going to be out on the Diwali day and my book will also be published at the same time."

"I must now try to finish my novel as early as possible," said Prabhakar, and he began to collect the scattered pages of his manuscript.

"Why, Prabhakar, you seem to be getting fond of Mr. Apte. What is your idea? You want to marry his daughter, Kusum, it seems. She is in our class. You want to be a writer for Mr. Apte's magazine and then to be his son-in-law. Very splendid idea, and I do not think it will be a bad match."

"A fine stroke, indeed," said Prabhakar and he again pushed back his curly hair and cast a casual look in the mirror hanging on the wall. "A prosaic man like you has become a poet now; but tell me, Wasu, why should I not get Mr. Apte's Kusum? They say I am a good writer and, if I am successful, I am bound to get fame and money, both. I shall then be able to keep Kusum in comfort. Why should I not then aspire to win the hand of Kusum in marriage?"

"Oh, Sheikh Mohamad! Do not begin to build castles in the air like this. You must have lots of money to get Kusum's hand. Mr. Apte may praise you as a good writer but he would not marry you to his Kusum if you have not got heaps of money–Be sure that Kusum would not also like to marry a poor man like you."

"Then you can see it, Wasu," said Prabhakar. "It is my ambition to marry Kusum. I know that she reads my stories and likes them. I believe that I am going to be a successful writer and also going to earn heaps of money as an author. Be sure that I am going to make Kusum quite comfortable in my house."

"Amen", said I, "this is all that your friend would wish."

"Remember this, Wasu," said Prabhakar, "note what I say. Today is the 15th of September 1921. Within 5 years from this date you will find Prabhakar known as a very great

author and writer of Maharashtra. You will find me very rich and living a very happy life with Kusum".

"Be it so," said I "but enough of these dreams. Let us now go for a walk".

Prabhakar pushed back his hair again. He brushed those unruly curls, put on his coat and looked at the papers lying on the table. The name of the novel which Prabhakar was writing was An Idealist's Dream. We left Prabhakar's room. We heard the sound of a motor-horn. We turned to the left and a motor passed by us. It belonged to Dr. Paranjpye. Miss. Kusum Apte was one of the occupants.

* * * * *

The next year I left Poona and began to look after my lands. I learnt that Prabhakar had also left Poona but I did not know where he had gone. Our correspondence also stopped after some time. I was an agriculturist after all. We people who have to look to cultivation do not get time to write letters.

I went to see my brother-in-law in September 1926 at Khandwa. Accidentally I met Prabhakar in the way.

"Halo, Prabhakar," said I

"Halo, Wasu," exclaimed Prabhakar.

I went with Prabhakar to his house. Prabhakar was a clerk in the Khandwa post-office. He used to get Rs. 50 a month. His wife was ailing and therefore Prabhakar had to cook himself. Prabhakar had two children and they were also very weak. "Wasu," said Prabhakar. "Let me go to the bazaar for a short time. I want to make some purchases. Today is the 15th of September. There are still 15 days more, and then I shall get my pay. It is such a hard time and one is always in difficulties for money."

We heard the sound of a motor-horn and a beautiful car passed by Prabhakar's house. "Whose car is this, Prabhakar?" I asked. "Oh, it belongs to Dr. Deshmukh. Dr. Desumukh is Civil Surgeon here, you know, and Mrs. Deshmukh was driving the car" said Prabhakar, rubbing his bearded chin.

"But I remember to have seen this lady somewhere, Prabhakar," I enquired.

"Yes, you have seen her," said Prabhakar. "Do you not remember Miss Kusum Apte who was with us in the college? It is she. She is now married to Dr. Deshmukh, but pray wait for a short time and let me go to the bazaar. I will come back within 15 minutes." And he walked out of the room. I sat on and looked round the room. A book was lying on the table. It was a torn book and some of its pages were missing. I looked at it. It was Prabhakar's own book. Its name was An Idealist's Dream. I began to glance through those tattered pages of that book, An Idealist's Dream.