One of the clearest things in my heart has been the indisputability of God’s concrete interventions in the affairs of men. It was clearly the divine arrangement that I got saved as a believer six months before the roof caved in. While the tribulations soared, I was the arrowhead of faith; believing that the just shall triumph…it was just a matter of time.
Hard work, selfless determination and practical ambition can and often push individuals to the brink of great success; but we all need a dose of grace (what self-made men call luck or chance). When all the brouhaha died down, and we were freed from incessant detentions; leaving the lawyers to battle it in the courts, we settled to our game. The real battle to survive began, Before now, we had been running on adrenalin gas on account o the spectacle and drama our lives had become.
We learnt few lessons in human psychology. Many people who had no idea what was going took sides, on either sides. I realize that, sometimes there was no honour amongst thieves. One publication carried a banner headline, Editors in the Docks, recounting the allegations against us; without the benefit of getting our side of the issue. Yet, the publisher was an egbon to us. Efforts by the paper to amend their unprofessional and incestuous antic were rebuffed in anger (now, I can say that was a foolish response on our part).
There was another incident of a relation of mine who appeared to get the full dose of the “true” story from somewhere, and let it be known that she was sure that I was in the guilty party; yet she did not consider it worthwhile to ask me how I got involved in such a mess. I was astounded and distressed at such barefaced betrayal. But it was lesson that in this unpredictable world, even members of your family can arise against you, when you are down, simple for no reasonable cause. When such happens, and it will happen, steel yourself; ignore the need to react and “tell them some home-truth”… it is useless! Simply pick yourself up, and use them as catalyst to excel after the fall. Just get up, and go up.
Between 1998 and 2000, all was going well in Encomium. We were able to offset our debys and other obligations. With steely determination and self-sacrifice, the business began to stabilize. We set up praying teams: my wife (Iretunde), Kunle’s wife (Desola) and I were directors, alongside our in-house pastor and factotum, Harrison Baiyagbon. We were praying and fasting, and doing all we could to get God’s backing. Kunle was a Muslim, so he was a conscientious objector but willing supporter of our religious warfare. Because we had a reason to bond, and an enemy to fight, it was advantageous to my spiritual growth. Usually, when you come into faith, after a less than inspiring lifestyle, you tend to appear over-religious, seeing most things through the prism of good or bad, evil or holy, God or Satan, friends or enemies – and often nothing in between. It is not in itself a bad thing; as such tendencies will be tempered by challenges and adversity over a period of time. You will either come of it with a fine and mature faith, assailing the world with compassion and understanding; or emerge a sullied and frightened bigot, with a self-limiting blinker in the hopeless pursuit of happiness.
Sunday, August 15, 2010
SAVED BY LOYALTY
In early 1997, the traces of boardroom crisis that would subsequently engulf all the young battlers in Fame magazine had started rearing their heads. The several issues arising from the palaver led us to pitch different and bitter camps, as we battled each other with all sorts of legal arsenal we could muster. While the other party raised a formidable legal team led by the erudite grand luminary, Prof. Kasunmu, SAN; in our corner with all the pungency of his hydra-headed all-action attack-team was the indefatigable Chief Gani Fawehinmi, SAN.
We went underground for several days to avoid being hounded into detention in the power-play enveloping us, while our initial lawyer (Soji Adegbesan) prepared legal documents to articulate our defence in such a manner that the obvious injustice would be clear to all.
My house was besieged, as policemen and detectives combed the whole neighbourhood looking for me. You would think I was a bank MD being sought for non-performing loans. In spite of the protestations of my wife and little children, the official car, a Jetta Champion, was towed away, when they could not get the keys. My neighbours must surely think it was a stolen car; or that the car was not paid for, and the owners had taken forcible repossession. I didn’t bother to explain to any of them though: who would believe my report?
When eventually we came out of hiding, we began a relentless struggle to make our case; clear our names and demand just remuneration for investing good six years of our lives building the publication as a successful brand and a prosperous business.
Soon, Kunle and I went on several trips to detention centres in many parts of Lagos State: Milverton Road, Panti Station, Alagbon Centre, etc. We spent days in detention answering questions upon questions on allegations that were patently stretching. We also spent days in Kirikri Maximum Prison on remand from the Ikeja High Court. We were before a tough judge, Justice Inumidun Akande, now the Chief Judge of Lagos. She insisted that we spend about six days at the notorious prison. Our stay in Alagbon, Panti (that was a dungeon no one should inhabit) and Kirikiri was a different kind of education and revelation which can occupy several weeks of “Life-Lines”. More later.
In spite, and in the midst of all these unflinching torment and unending upheavals in our professional and matrimonial lives, we started, produced, edited and supervised the launching of a new magazine called “National Encomium”.
It was surreal, really. By divine orchestration, all the staff with us in Fame then, minus three or so, elected of their own accord, to swim or sink with us (Kunle and I), and they practically worked their socks off to shake up the general interest magazine market; dislodge the reigning publications; and within five weeks, became the leading magazine in its category.
While we battled to save our lives and reputations at the courts, we realized the anger at the other side was stoked by the fact that Fame magazine could not reopen, as it was laid comatose by the near total absence of its editorial spine.
But our efforts to resuscitate our professional grip on the business would have been near impossible without some strategic assistance. We had no money; all the millions were stuck in the banks; our accounts were frozen, so we were on a budget worse than shoestring. It was challenging that if we had sat down to carefully factor in all the necessary costs of sustaining a magazine for only three months, we would have fled. But God raised business-angels like Mr. Muyiwa Adetiba who gave us a two-room office to operate from – for free. Help also came in trickles from notable admirers and supporters who dismissed the allegations against us, and did what they could.
Without such people; without the uncommonly loyal staff; without the grit and gusto to succeed that only a crazed youthfulness can instigate; and surely without the grace and protection of God Almighty, there never would have been an “Encomium”. Until next week, stand upright.
We went underground for several days to avoid being hounded into detention in the power-play enveloping us, while our initial lawyer (Soji Adegbesan) prepared legal documents to articulate our defence in such a manner that the obvious injustice would be clear to all.
My house was besieged, as policemen and detectives combed the whole neighbourhood looking for me. You would think I was a bank MD being sought for non-performing loans. In spite of the protestations of my wife and little children, the official car, a Jetta Champion, was towed away, when they could not get the keys. My neighbours must surely think it was a stolen car; or that the car was not paid for, and the owners had taken forcible repossession. I didn’t bother to explain to any of them though: who would believe my report?
When eventually we came out of hiding, we began a relentless struggle to make our case; clear our names and demand just remuneration for investing good six years of our lives building the publication as a successful brand and a prosperous business.
Soon, Kunle and I went on several trips to detention centres in many parts of Lagos State: Milverton Road, Panti Station, Alagbon Centre, etc. We spent days in detention answering questions upon questions on allegations that were patently stretching. We also spent days in Kirikri Maximum Prison on remand from the Ikeja High Court. We were before a tough judge, Justice Inumidun Akande, now the Chief Judge of Lagos. She insisted that we spend about six days at the notorious prison. Our stay in Alagbon, Panti (that was a dungeon no one should inhabit) and Kirikiri was a different kind of education and revelation which can occupy several weeks of “Life-Lines”. More later.
In spite, and in the midst of all these unflinching torment and unending upheavals in our professional and matrimonial lives, we started, produced, edited and supervised the launching of a new magazine called “National Encomium”.
It was surreal, really. By divine orchestration, all the staff with us in Fame then, minus three or so, elected of their own accord, to swim or sink with us (Kunle and I), and they practically worked their socks off to shake up the general interest magazine market; dislodge the reigning publications; and within five weeks, became the leading magazine in its category.
While we battled to save our lives and reputations at the courts, we realized the anger at the other side was stoked by the fact that Fame magazine could not reopen, as it was laid comatose by the near total absence of its editorial spine.
But our efforts to resuscitate our professional grip on the business would have been near impossible without some strategic assistance. We had no money; all the millions were stuck in the banks; our accounts were frozen, so we were on a budget worse than shoestring. It was challenging that if we had sat down to carefully factor in all the necessary costs of sustaining a magazine for only three months, we would have fled. But God raised business-angels like Mr. Muyiwa Adetiba who gave us a two-room office to operate from – for free. Help also came in trickles from notable admirers and supporters who dismissed the allegations against us, and did what they could.
Without such people; without the uncommonly loyal staff; without the grit and gusto to succeed that only a crazed youthfulness can instigate; and surely without the grace and protection of God Almighty, there never would have been an “Encomium”. Until next week, stand upright.
THE FAME YEARS…
As usual, I threw myself into the job (at Climax) like a maniac; such that eight months after, I received another nomination for entertainment writing. By the end of the year, I was prevailed upon to take the magazine to another level as its editor. However, less than six months on the job, I had to make a tearful exit. Again, my employer, an astute mentor and quiet inspiration, did not want me to leave. Reinventing the niche of the magazine was just at its infancy level, and he direly wanted a little more of my time. But he recognized the unchallengeable desire to run after my own dream. He did not want to stand against the momentum of my groovy train; he understood clearly, since he himself was at the same station many years earlier.
So, on Saturday, July 6, 1991, we launched Fame Weekly publication, a black & white tabloid to challenge the reigning journal – Weekend Concord. We wanted to be the best, and in our youthful exuberance, we felt our ambition could only be matched by an ego that would take on the best in our field. I remember the day like last week: there we were in the Adeniyi Jones Avenue sitting room of Kunle’s publisher, the late May Ellen Ezekiel (a great kind-hearted spirit who helped us tremendously in stoking the fire of our dream) and her husband Richard Mofe Damijo, discussing the sense and nonsense involved in hitting the streets on the same day with Weekend Concord, the market leader. Those were great heady days.
Under two years however, we realized the futility of “dragging” the turf with Weekend Concord, since we didn’t have an MKO behind us. So, we re-strategized, repositioned and rebranded. We introduced colour and perked up the cover price. In all that, we didn’t stop working hard. Really, hard. So, we were not surprised when money, fame, awards, friends and all the fringe benefits of success started pursuing us – three young, life-loving, still-impressionable boys from relatively humble backgrounds. It was a recipe for implosion of disastrous consequences.
About six years after the Fame partnership took off from the rooftop, it crashed to earth spectacularly in May, 2007. The mess of the episode is left for another forum.
What happened or did not happen in Fame magazine (now defunct) is not useful in this story. The only useful fact emanating from the fun, the glory, the pains and the controversies of the Fame years was that I met Jesus Christ in a funny way, and subsequently surrendered my life and ways on December 29, 1996 – six clear months before the first major crisis of my life erupted.
Thank God for the preparation that was done before the calamity landed. I believe strongly that if it was the crisis that got me close to God, the scars would have been too deep to forget.
The overwhelming lesson of the Fame years is: you must test your friendship very well, and many times, before you set up business partnerships with them. I was not very close to Mayor before Fame. The first serious test exposed the holes in our relationship; but by then it was too late to jump ship. With Kunle, it was different. We were like soul-mates. But age, success and other matters later put that to its own crucible. That’s a story for another day. Katchya.
So, on Saturday, July 6, 1991, we launched Fame Weekly publication, a black & white tabloid to challenge the reigning journal – Weekend Concord. We wanted to be the best, and in our youthful exuberance, we felt our ambition could only be matched by an ego that would take on the best in our field. I remember the day like last week: there we were in the Adeniyi Jones Avenue sitting room of Kunle’s publisher, the late May Ellen Ezekiel (a great kind-hearted spirit who helped us tremendously in stoking the fire of our dream) and her husband Richard Mofe Damijo, discussing the sense and nonsense involved in hitting the streets on the same day with Weekend Concord, the market leader. Those were great heady days.
Under two years however, we realized the futility of “dragging” the turf with Weekend Concord, since we didn’t have an MKO behind us. So, we re-strategized, repositioned and rebranded. We introduced colour and perked up the cover price. In all that, we didn’t stop working hard. Really, hard. So, we were not surprised when money, fame, awards, friends and all the fringe benefits of success started pursuing us – three young, life-loving, still-impressionable boys from relatively humble backgrounds. It was a recipe for implosion of disastrous consequences.
About six years after the Fame partnership took off from the rooftop, it crashed to earth spectacularly in May, 2007. The mess of the episode is left for another forum.
What happened or did not happen in Fame magazine (now defunct) is not useful in this story. The only useful fact emanating from the fun, the glory, the pains and the controversies of the Fame years was that I met Jesus Christ in a funny way, and subsequently surrendered my life and ways on December 29, 1996 – six clear months before the first major crisis of my life erupted.
Thank God for the preparation that was done before the calamity landed. I believe strongly that if it was the crisis that got me close to God, the scars would have been too deep to forget.
The overwhelming lesson of the Fame years is: you must test your friendship very well, and many times, before you set up business partnerships with them. I was not very close to Mayor before Fame. The first serious test exposed the holes in our relationship; but by then it was too late to jump ship. With Kunle, it was different. We were like soul-mates. But age, success and other matters later put that to its own crucible. That’s a story for another day. Katchya.
Monday, April 19, 2010
CHASING MY DREAM
This is the story of my life as knocked into shape by a five-year period (2002 to 2006) during which things were so low for my family that I practically had no legs to walk on. It was a period so devastating that it was a major miracle that we all survived it.
However, the simple fact is that I am privileged to hold this pen now. I sincerely hope that someone may peel through the layers of dehumanizing episodes of my life, and see where you can right your own boat if it is keening off course – just about now.
My ‘wahala’ did not start because I left Fame magazine (1997) in controversial circumstances. It was the launching pad. You see, in 1990, I joined two colleagues and friends (Mayowa Akinpelu and Kunle Bakare) to register a company. Then, I was a heaven-may-fall-I-don’t-give-damn reporter with The Punch newspapers. I had won few awards for my work in reporting arts and entertainment, here and there. And was saddled with the opportunity to refashion a new, livelier and breezier Saturday Punch…but my heart had been stolen with the explosive idea of running a news organization of my own.
You see, many people, today and forever, are always scared to launch into professional wilderness; unable to dare to follow their dreams. My employers did not want me to leave. I loved the Saturday Highlife weekend column I was handling, and sundry other pages and articles I was contributing to…I truly enjoyed working in Punch, even when my salary was less than N500 every month (that was in 1989). I chose the harder route…
Now, I needed magazine production experience. Both my friends were working in a magazine stable (Vintage). I was a newspaper man, a rat of the features department, with the strange capacity to work four days in week, straight out of the office! Then, enter the sports writer extraordinaire and publisher, Mr. Sunny Obazu Ojeagbase. Of course, I didn’t understand what God was doing, since I had only a fleeting appreciation of the role of God in my life.
In retrospect, it was a divine set-up: I wanted a magazine experience; he was desperately head-hunting for a noisy entertainment reporter/writer. He was a humble strong-willed successful journalist that many of my contemporaries looked up to. But there was nothing humble about his approach. He spread out the red carpet. I had a lunch with him at Sheraton Hotel, where he bowled me over with his familiarity and admiration with my work, and my style of writing. He shocked me further when he offered me an amount about four times over my Punch take-home.
Need I tell you what I did next? After several days of negotiating and whathaveyou, I resumed at Okota as Climax magazine’s Deputy Editor (Entertainment/Leisure). The other deputy was Ehi Braimoh (Moji Danisa was the editor). That was June 1990. What lesson does anyone get from this? You may end up on the wrong side of life on account of your decisions; don’t ever be too scared to make a life-changing decision when the opportunity knocks on your head. Think, yes. Pray, yes. Ask experienced, yes; but make sure you make up your mind and take a clean plunge…and before you fly, prick yourself - never assume nothing can go wrong.
However, the simple fact is that I am privileged to hold this pen now. I sincerely hope that someone may peel through the layers of dehumanizing episodes of my life, and see where you can right your own boat if it is keening off course – just about now.
My ‘wahala’ did not start because I left Fame magazine (1997) in controversial circumstances. It was the launching pad. You see, in 1990, I joined two colleagues and friends (Mayowa Akinpelu and Kunle Bakare) to register a company. Then, I was a heaven-may-fall-I-don’t-give-damn reporter with The Punch newspapers. I had won few awards for my work in reporting arts and entertainment, here and there. And was saddled with the opportunity to refashion a new, livelier and breezier Saturday Punch…but my heart had been stolen with the explosive idea of running a news organization of my own.
You see, many people, today and forever, are always scared to launch into professional wilderness; unable to dare to follow their dreams. My employers did not want me to leave. I loved the Saturday Highlife weekend column I was handling, and sundry other pages and articles I was contributing to…I truly enjoyed working in Punch, even when my salary was less than N500 every month (that was in 1989). I chose the harder route…
Now, I needed magazine production experience. Both my friends were working in a magazine stable (Vintage). I was a newspaper man, a rat of the features department, with the strange capacity to work four days in week, straight out of the office! Then, enter the sports writer extraordinaire and publisher, Mr. Sunny Obazu Ojeagbase. Of course, I didn’t understand what God was doing, since I had only a fleeting appreciation of the role of God in my life.
In retrospect, it was a divine set-up: I wanted a magazine experience; he was desperately head-hunting for a noisy entertainment reporter/writer. He was a humble strong-willed successful journalist that many of my contemporaries looked up to. But there was nothing humble about his approach. He spread out the red carpet. I had a lunch with him at Sheraton Hotel, where he bowled me over with his familiarity and admiration with my work, and my style of writing. He shocked me further when he offered me an amount about four times over my Punch take-home.
Need I tell you what I did next? After several days of negotiating and whathaveyou, I resumed at Okota as Climax magazine’s Deputy Editor (Entertainment/Leisure). The other deputy was Ehi Braimoh (Moji Danisa was the editor). That was June 1990. What lesson does anyone get from this? You may end up on the wrong side of life on account of your decisions; don’t ever be too scared to make a life-changing decision when the opportunity knocks on your head. Think, yes. Pray, yes. Ask experienced, yes; but make sure you make up your mind and take a clean plunge…and before you fly, prick yourself - never assume nothing can go wrong.
Monday, February 22, 2010
WEATHER-BEATEN HOPE!
As I was saying …
Such were some days when the tyranny of unfulfilled dreams crippled your creative juice, and you remain emotionally and psychologically drained for days, hoping for the dawn not to show up. When you inexplicably get dog-tired, without participating in any exertions…wishing your heart should just stop somewhere in the Lagos traffic.
When all appeared dim, I would not know where I got the energy not to give in fully to despair, or run out and look for salvation in other means and powers…it was so easy to make money without quibbling about faith or niceties of steadfastness; or the dignified distance from sleaze of influence-peddling and professional blackmail. And more importantly, I kept assuring my children, to hold on, to watch carefully and patiently, and know that God answers prayers… I didn’t know what would happen…but I knew something must happen…and I was just praying that my boast of God, in the face of mounting depression… in the presence of my children, would not blow up on my face.
Not only would I have completed my faith-tripping in gigantic failure; but I would have invariably dragged my children millions of kilometers far away from God, and any hope of spiritual communion.
But my hope was based on a very simple premise: that if in all our tribulations, the children were made active wide-eyed witnesses of our battles to overwhelm all our challenges; with nothing more fantastic than prayers, fasting, honest lifestyle and an unshakeable trust in God. And that if, by the special grace of God, our circumstances improved remarkably - and they were also there to witness it - then, we will not need to preach long sermons before they are fully persuaded about who is the God of their parents. They will look up to the same God, and teach their own children to do likewise.
It was so simple; yet heart-breaking, as months rolled on one another and our situation stubbornly remained the same. But God is faithful.
Sometimes, it would appear God was not interested in our case; our efforts to serve or to remain on the straight line might seem inadequate or unappreciated; but the end of the story would almost always reveal that God is truly faithful.
Today, our children do not need us to tell them to pray or fast before their exams; they were witnesses. Now, they put their own faith to the test: and God has not failed them.
Have you learnt anything so far from this? Do you want to share your own story? Your story may encourage me to share more, and grow further. I want to read from you…Katchya.
Such were some days when the tyranny of unfulfilled dreams crippled your creative juice, and you remain emotionally and psychologically drained for days, hoping for the dawn not to show up. When you inexplicably get dog-tired, without participating in any exertions…wishing your heart should just stop somewhere in the Lagos traffic.
When all appeared dim, I would not know where I got the energy not to give in fully to despair, or run out and look for salvation in other means and powers…it was so easy to make money without quibbling about faith or niceties of steadfastness; or the dignified distance from sleaze of influence-peddling and professional blackmail. And more importantly, I kept assuring my children, to hold on, to watch carefully and patiently, and know that God answers prayers… I didn’t know what would happen…but I knew something must happen…and I was just praying that my boast of God, in the face of mounting depression… in the presence of my children, would not blow up on my face.
Not only would I have completed my faith-tripping in gigantic failure; but I would have invariably dragged my children millions of kilometers far away from God, and any hope of spiritual communion.
But my hope was based on a very simple premise: that if in all our tribulations, the children were made active wide-eyed witnesses of our battles to overwhelm all our challenges; with nothing more fantastic than prayers, fasting, honest lifestyle and an unshakeable trust in God. And that if, by the special grace of God, our circumstances improved remarkably - and they were also there to witness it - then, we will not need to preach long sermons before they are fully persuaded about who is the God of their parents. They will look up to the same God, and teach their own children to do likewise.
It was so simple; yet heart-breaking, as months rolled on one another and our situation stubbornly remained the same. But God is faithful.
Sometimes, it would appear God was not interested in our case; our efforts to serve or to remain on the straight line might seem inadequate or unappreciated; but the end of the story would almost always reveal that God is truly faithful.
Today, our children do not need us to tell them to pray or fast before their exams; they were witnesses. Now, they put their own faith to the test: and God has not failed them.
Have you learnt anything so far from this? Do you want to share your own story? Your story may encourage me to share more, and grow further. I want to read from you…Katchya.
Monday, February 8, 2010
WHEN LAUGHTER IS CRUEL
Sometimes, you may be confused. Disillusioned. Bitterly disappointed. I was, intermittently. After all I was human. All the Bible simply says is that I shall not be tempted beyond my endurance…but nobody was there to gauge how I was measuring up in dealing with my temptation?
When, sometimes, the way appeared blurred; when I saw people I had trained, or who once were employed in my own company driving the best cars, buying lands and building nice houses; strutting across TV stages, co-mingling with the high and mighty: the sheer force of my predicament would cloud my vision, and I would somewhat swat tears from my face…but I never gave up on God, and my abilities.
Somehow, I did not scavenge for foods at dustbins; I did not shy away from driving my weather-beaten bus (the only vehicle available at one point) in the same traffic where my rich friends could see me, and possibly laugh. I remember going to receive a major award (which I helped to found, years earlier, in my bus, with all my family inside). Because they would not be seen in apparels less befitting, I was persuaded to go alone (usually, I enjoy attending events with my wife, and if possible, with the children in tow.) But I went in alone; collected the award (special recognition for contributions to Nigerian entertainment).
I stood there, as my citation was being read, looking at the happy faces of revelers, and hustling army of award organizers, and almost chuckled aloud at the emptiness of the whole charade. There I was standing to be recognized, and celebrated. Briefly being thrust into the limelight again, and no one in the hall asked where I had been in the past three years; what was I doing to survive; what about my wife and children; what happened to all the glimmer and glamour?
Everybody was too occupied living the life of fame and prosperity; everyone was too busy enjoying the day to spoil it all by hazarding to know what was going on in my life. But for that five minutes, I was given the necessary applause and thumps-up.
I reasoned later that it was not that they did not care; it is simply that they did not expect me to see them more than what they really were: show-biz friends and paddies. If I wanted more than that, I should definitely deserve what I was going through. I learnt, on that stage, that even those who were bestowing the honour on me cannot be blamed if I went home hungry; I had chosen the path I preferred, and they would not be bothered as I faced the consequence of a non-conformist lifestyle. How can you blame such reasoning? After all, your life is your canoe; you may choose to paddle backward or forward. I had chosen. And I had to stick to it. So, I left the hall, knowing that I would sleep without food that night. Katchya.
Sometimes, you may be confused. Disillusioned. Bitterly disappointed. I was, intermittently. After all I was human. All the Bible simply says is that I shall not be tempted beyond my endurance…but nobody was there to gauge how I was measuring up in dealing with my temptation?
When, sometimes, the way appeared blurred; when I saw people I had trained, or who once were employed in my own company driving the best cars, buying lands and building nice houses; strutting across TV stages, co-mingling with the high and mighty: the sheer force of my predicament would cloud my vision, and I would somewhat swat tears from my face…but I never gave up on God, and my abilities.
Somehow, I did not scavenge for foods at dustbins; I did not shy away from driving my weather-beaten bus (the only vehicle available at one point) in the same traffic where my rich friends could see me, and possibly laugh. I remember going to receive a major award (which I helped to found, years earlier, in my bus, with all my family inside). Because they would not be seen in apparels less befitting, I was persuaded to go alone (usually, I enjoy attending events with my wife, and if possible, with the children in tow.) But I went in alone; collected the award (special recognition for contributions to Nigerian entertainment).
I stood there, as my citation was being read, looking at the happy faces of revelers, and hustling army of award organizers, and almost chuckled aloud at the emptiness of the whole charade. There I was standing to be recognized, and celebrated. Briefly being thrust into the limelight again, and no one in the hall asked where I had been in the past three years; what was I doing to survive; what about my wife and children; what happened to all the glimmer and glamour?
Everybody was too occupied living the life of fame and prosperity; everyone was too busy enjoying the day to spoil it all by hazarding to know what was going on in my life. But for that five minutes, I was given the necessary applause and thumps-up.
I reasoned later that it was not that they did not care; it is simply that they did not expect me to see them more than what they really were: show-biz friends and paddies. If I wanted more than that, I should definitely deserve what I was going through. I learnt, on that stage, that even those who were bestowing the honour on me cannot be blamed if I went home hungry; I had chosen the path I preferred, and they would not be bothered as I faced the consequence of a non-conformist lifestyle. How can you blame such reasoning? After all, your life is your canoe; you may choose to paddle backward or forward. I had chosen. And I had to stick to it. So, I left the hall, knowing that I would sleep without food that night. Katchya.
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