In a small village lived a poet named Mohanlal. He wrote very little actual poetry but spent most of his time building castles in the air. People often said, “Mohan is not a poet; he is the prince of daydreams.”
Every morning, Mohanlal would sit at the tea stall and start planning his glorious future. Sometimes he would declare, “I will become the greatest poet in the world.” Other times he would say, “My poems will be published on the front page of newspapers.”
The shopkeeper would laugh and reply, “First, pay for your tea.”
Mohanlal loved thinking more than writing. He would write one line on paper, then stare at the sky for hours waiting for the next line to descend from heaven. His diary always contained half a poem, two dreams, and three grand plans.
One day he announced proudly, “I will soon publish a collection of poems.”
The villagers asked, “What will you name it?”
Without hesitation, Mohanlal said, “Imaginary Pilaf and Poetic Flavor.”
He had already designed the book cover in his mind—his own photograph on the front, mountains in the background, and pigeons flying above.
The real problem was that instead of writing poems, he spent more time planning how to promote them. He even thought, “If the book doesn’t sell, I will write another one about the success story of the first book.”
One day, a poetry gathering was organized at the village school, and Mohanlal was invited. Holding the microphone confidently, he said, “Today I will recite a poem that will touch your heart.”
The crowd fell silent.
Mohanlal looked at the sky for two minutes and then said, “My poem is still ripening in the fields of my mind, just like imaginary pilaf cooks slowly.”
The audience burst into laughter.
When he returned home, his wife asked, “When will you actually write poetry?”
Mohanlal smiled and replied, “I am still cooking the dream; the poem will prepare itself.”
And once again, he immersed himself in the aroma of his imaginary feast, searching for the flavor of poetry in his dreams.
RAJEEV VERMA 