Silly Sam felt a glow of
self-satisfaction. He felt so good. All is well with the world. He left the
premises of the sanctuary he was willingly in, for a short walk in the evening
sun watching the wandering river.
He was at the top of the
world because he had managed to complete a piece of writing.
It was what he dubbed an
epic poem. He had been exuberant on the last day of composition. He had written
330 lines instead of his usual 80 lines in frenzy. He had sat up long into the
night. He himself suspected he had lost whatever littlie quality he’d managed
so far, in this deluge. But that didn’t dim the glow of feel-goodness in him.
Now, Silly Sam, as his name
proclaims, is silly. All his actions carry varying measures of stupidity. Let
us see how silly he is now in his smug feel-goodness.
He had just completed 1501
lines of verse on his patron saint. Perhaps it is all shallow writing. He loves
to read his writing but perhaps nobody else would touch it. Perhaps after his
death, more termites will be enjoying his poems than people will have had.
Many silly wasted hours!
But he has dogged silly
reasons, you bet.
For one, he had spent time
thinking devout thoughts contemplating his patron saint.
Then he says he had enjoyed
playing the dolly writing in his mind. Consider that child who played making a
clay idol and staging a mock worship. He sure had companions, but would have
enjoyed the game solo.
Blame it on a touch of
silliness, I wish him well.
Swami Sampurnananda; Genre 273, No. 31; 11 Jan. 2004; 9.30 p.m. Lalgarh dining table.