The almighty Eadhrum, weary of granting the prayers of avaricious, fraudulent, and unscrupulous[GJ1] , both corporeal and incorporeal, wonders whether to cease the practice. While there’s joy and self-satisfaction through this charity, justice and beauty are corrupted by it. Facing the dilemma, as Eadhrum’s time stops in his court, he 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[GJ2] .
Eadhrum is surprised and entertained by this request. 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; but this guy is not anywhere near those; his prayer is only for immortality—immortality [GJ3] in the real world.
He notices the guy. It transpires he is a writer. A so-called writer. An idea then comes to Eadhrum, and He says, I can fulfill your wish only if an immortal writer recommends you.
The man goes to the region of Dhrumspace, where the authors reside whose writings have become timeless.
He observes that each residence in Dhrumspace exists in such eternal peace that no frustration or grief can ever reach it[GJ4] . 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 Ernest Hemingway that can force you to commit suicide?
No.
Then how could you ever write anything—a poem, a fiction, a drama that will be timeless? So, how can I help you? Kawabata asks, closing the door in the writer’s face[GJ5] .
The writer then seeks out Milan Kundera. After learning the reason for his visit, Kundera asks, Do you consider yourself 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Then, if like you, my citizenship was revoked, I would have to spend the rest of my life in exile!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 such a destiny?
Is it possible? the man counters.
Have you written anything like Blindness, The Waste Land, or Hamlet?
No, he is embarrassed but confesses.
Even a dialogue, like: Life’s... it is a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing.
He thinks, in the meantime, the writers he meets are all infamous—are they jealous of him! He says, But I’m so popular…
It’s not a criterion for immortality availability, Kundera says. Are you, like Benjamin Malaysia, for the rights of deprived, oppressed people, able to rebel by writing a poem for which you could have been hung?[GJ6] And from this sacrifice, mankind will be inspired to fight against injustice.
I’m not a so-called revolutionary!
Only a revolutionary’s poetry may not be timeless; his poem must also be aesthetically rich.
He meets Federico García Lorca.
Are you a writer of any defeat, grief, or killing—from which blood flows continuously? Lorca wants to know.
No, no, and no.
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.
Not even that.
Then what did you write with!
With joy and beauty! his strong accent.
Then just read John Keats and verify your availability.
The guy thinks of meeting Keats.
Have you ever found the beauty in which you were ready to blend in or vanish? Keats asks.
Why is that! he feels uneasy.
So, what did you write that could grant you immortality?
He returns to Eadhrum’s court, upset. He pledges himself fully to the Eadhrum in one last bid for immortality, In your holy Dhrum Book it is told, only you are the great generous, great giver.… I’ve already written so much, and in its return… and above all you are almighty[GJ7] —!
Eadhrum interrupts the writer. Even though that power of mine is not unbounded, there's also a statutory limit. Though not immortality, behold, Eadhrum points to the mortal, I’ve given you as far as I could.
The man notices that his rich bank balance, earned by selling his popular writings, is now increasing at the rate of compounding [GJ8] for the book, which, in the meantime, has been recognized as a best-seller. His multi-story tower is rapidly growing to touch the sky, but it’s also silently expressing that its staircase will never reach Dhrumspace. It means, he realizes, all my works are worthless[GJ9] .
But what will happen to those so-called timeless writings in just one crore [GJ10] years, eventually Eadhrum soliloquies, Even am I immortal—is it not a great mockery! ♦
[GJ1]I note that you have sued web formatting, This is unusual for a submission, But. Of course This is published online anyway.
[GJ2]Your deity certainly has a personality.
[GJ3]I wonder if everyone’s idea of this is different?
[GJ4]So, will they be able to write?
[GJ5]Indeed.
[GJ6]Hanged? Different past particle when it’s death penalty?
[GJ7]Unconventional punctuation for dialogue but it works here.
[GJ8]Slightly odd expression.
[GJ9]A Tower of Babel moment?
