Words are all we have...

This post is dedicated to Tarun...

I have had a question I would like to ask you all. Do you believe that a writer can change lives? Can a novelist alter all the perceptions you had on living? Can a few printed words induce changes deep down inside your soul? Can reading a poem turnout to be the most cherished moment of your life? Can a book transform you into a different entity altogether?

Definitely.
A writer is no ordinary man. When a writer is born, the angels in the sky come alive from their dreams. When a writer is born, a gush of warm water flows through the springs across the ends of the world. When a writer is born, the tree by the river sheds a single leaf which floats in the air for an eternity. When a writer is born, a light bulb kept in an old hut fades slowly to darkness. When a writer is born, a few fleas keep sucking blood from the wound of the dead. When a writer is born the world gets ready for him, for he would soon capture in the magic of his words, the warmth of the water, the journey of the lonely leaf, the silence of the angels, the pain of the man caught in darkness, the passion of love, the glitter of the tear and the smell of the dark and humid drop of blood.

Last night, I read How to Win Friends and Influence People by Dale Carnegie. The Daily Express describes it as the book that gave birth to a self-improvement industry that spans the globe.

Although the name of the book suggests that the book will help you make friends easily and quickly and will increase your popularity in a fortnight, the book in actuality is like a honing tool. It makes you a little better equipped to meet life’s situations. A little better equipped to keep your human contacts smooth and pleasant. It helps you to get out of a mental rut, think new thoughts, acquire new visions, and discover new ambitions. This book, if you read it, is going to help you master the art of human relationship.

Anyway, I just want to share one of the classics of American journalism, “Father Forgets.” This piece was reprinted in Dale's book. Father Forgets is one of those little pieces which – dashed off in a moment of sincere feeling – strikes an echoing chord in so many readers as to become a perennial reprint favorite. Since its first appearance, 'Father Forgets' has been reproduced, writes the author, W. Livingstone Larned, 'in hundreds of magazines and house organs, and in newspapers in the countries over. It has been ‘on the air’ on countless occasions and programmes. Sometimes a little piece seems mysteriously to “click.” This one certainly did.'

Dale and Livingston believe that criticism is futile. Criticism puts a person on the defensive and usually makes him strive to justify himself. Criticism is dangerous, because it wounds a person's precious pride, hurts his sense of importance, and arouses resentment.

As Dr. Johnson said:

   "God himself, sir, does not propose to judge man until the end of his days.

      Why should you and I?"

                                        FATHER FORGETS 
                                                              W. Livingston Larned

Listen, son: I am saying this as you lie asleep, one little paw crumpled under your cheek and the blond curls stickily wet on your damp forehead. I have stolen into your room alone. Just a few minutes ago, as I sat reading my paper in the library, a stifling wave of remorse swept over me. Guiltily I came to your bedside.

There are the things I was thinking, son: I had been cross to you. I scolded you as you were dressing for school because you gave your face merely a dab with a towel. I took you to task for not cleaning your shoes. I called out angrily when you threw some of your things on the floor.

At breakfast I found fault, too. You spilled things. You gulped down your food. You put your elbows on the table. You spread butter too thick on your bread. And as you started off to play and I made for my train, you turned and waved a hand and called, "Goodbye, Daddy!" and I frowned, and said in reply, "Hold your shoulders back!"

Then it began all over again in the late afternoon. As I came up the road I spied you, down on your knees, playing marbles. There were holes in your stockings. I humiliated you before your boyfriends by marching you ahead of me to the house. Stockings were expensive-and if you had to buy them you would be more careful! Imagine that, son, from a father!

Do you remember, later, when I was reading in the library, how you came in timidly, with a sort of hurt look in your eyes? When I glanced up over my paper, impatient at the interruption, you hesitated at the door. "What is it you want?" I snapped.

You said nothing, but ran across in one tempestuous plunge, and threw your arms around my neck and kissed me, and your small arms tightened with an affection that God had set blooming in your heart and which even neglect could not wither. And then you were gone, pattering up the stairs.

Well, son, it was shortly afterwards that my paper slipped from my hands and a terrible sickening fear came over me. What has habit been doing to me? The habit of finding fault, of reprimanding-this was my reward to you for being a boy. It was not that I did not love you; it was that I expected too much of youth. I was measuring you by the yardstick of my own years.

And there was so much that was good and fine and true in your character. The little heart of you was as big as the dawn itself over the wide hills. This was shown by your spontaneous impulse to rush in and kiss me good night. Nothing else matters tonight, son. I have come to your bedside in the darkness, and I have knelt there, ashamed!

It is feeble atonement; I know you would not understand these things if I told them to you during your waking hours. But tomorrow I will be a real daddy! I will chum with you, and suffer when you suffer, and laugh when you laugh. I will bite my tongue when impatient words come. I will keep saying as if it were a ritual: "He is nothing but a boy-a little boy!"

I am afraid I have visualized you as a man. Yet as I see you now, son, crumpled and weary in your cot, I see that you are still a baby. Yesterday you were in your mother's arms, your head on her shoulder. I have asked too much, too much, yet given too little of myself. Promise me, as I teach you to have the manners of a man, that you will remind me how to have the loving spirit of a child. 

Contributors:

- Dale Carnegie's How to Win Friends and Influence People
- Vignesh Sharma's Amazwi
- Livingston Larned's Father Forgets