Creative Cartoons and Poetry

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The Making of a Cactus Flower Article

By Sandeep Dath

The circumstances were just right. Yes, that's it. The circumstances. Just right.

I was in India , specifically in Pilani. I was, as the metaphor goes, totally vela in life and therefore extremely susceptible to ridiculous suggestions. That was why, when a bespectacled pimply youth asked me to pen an article for Cactus Flower, I hitched up my trousers, pulled up my socks and fell asleep in his room.

When I woke up, it turned out that somehow he had conned me into signing on the dotted line and all that. In any case, I gave little or no thought to the matter right away. I mean, what's in an article? It's just a string of high sounding sentences. The only trick lay in knowing where to put the punctuation marks. But I was confident that with a little help from Wren and possibly a teensy-weensy bit from Martin, I could cope with even this.

A few solid weeks passed however, before I got down to the task ahead of me. I realised that the whole affair was not, as I had believed, going to be a cakewalk. There I sat, without a single idea popping; just sitting and staring glumly at the chewed-up rear end of a Reynolds Fine Carbure.

One wonders how the big rad names like Hardy and Swift, not to mention Scott, managed to churn out the stuff in tons. I figured that there must be a method to their radness. I, for one, was confident in my estimation of Mark Twain's work, that the chap started out by deciding whether or not the butler or the baby-sitter was to 'have done it.' As for Sartre, with his characteristic flair for higher things, he functioned differently. Something instinctive told me that he used to plan out the best spot where the body could be buried. Why, I had but to follow on similar lines and the lads would  soon be drinking in every word I wrote.

But it was the plot that persistently eluded me. I recoursed to asking a very close friend of mine for help.

"Hey Garg, I need a good plot. Got any ideas?" I asked him one afternoon across the mess table.

A few moments later, when he had ceased to masticate the better part of a roti, he said, "The most important thing to do is to get the location right."

"Right. Location. Yes. Definitely important. Go on." I made a mental note of this piece of information. It looked like I'd picked the right person to ask.

"Then," he continued knowledgeably, "you have got to get your dimensions correct. That is, if you want a garden, you'd better get your dimensions correct. If you make a mistake, your garden will look like it's part of your drawing room. And, of course, don't forget elevation, soil..."

My jaw dropped, catching me halfway through a chewing session and grossing out three weak stomached gentlemen at my table. I knew from experience that we were often served bilge of a most disreputable nature in the mess, but of all the bilge that I have ever witnessed, this was bilge of the highest order that my friend was dishing out across the table. I then realised, way too late, that this accursed BITSian was guilty of having an 'A2' in his ID number.

The situation was so trying that I nearly gave up at this point. I could always have backed out of my decision to write the article. But the bespectacled youth kept reminding me gleefully of my commitments, throwing in phrases like 'breach of contract', 'black eyes' and 'multiple lacerations' effortlessly into the conversation. I was in a dilemma, trapped between the devil and his secretary. My wingies steadfastly claim till today that I was often found staring at my wrists with a pained expression on my face.

I decided finally to brave the problem like a man and with a calm, sophisticated  attitude.

"Mommy," I yelped over the phone. "There is this article thing, mom..."

My words falling over each other, I explained the whole situation to my mother. Mom paused for a few moments on the phone, as if contemplating the situation. It was either that or she was adding the word 'strait-jacket' to her shopping list. Finally she said, "Son, write about something that has affected you personally and profoundly. And remember..."

As I stood watching the seconds tick away on the STD meter, I let my mind wander. A swarm of ideas and images flooded my mind. I thought of all my 'profound' experiences...

And then, suddenly, it all fell into place. My most profound, personal and harrowing experience. I knew what that was, and I could write volumes on it. Well, sort of.

Anyway, that evening when I sat back in my room and lifted my pen once more, it was with deliberation and feeling that I penned the words, "The circumstances were just right. Yes, that's it. The circumstances. Just ...." ■

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