1

For some reason, Bruce was excited. He wouldn’t tell anyone.

Bruce reminded you of Bruce Reid, the tall Australian fast bowler of the late 80s. He was 6 feet. Not a towering frame, but lanky as Mr. Reid and smelling onions (while bathing was a chore).

He was not a bowler. He was an author. He loved books.

In March 2024, he published his first novel on Amazon. An adaptation of his own personal stories. It was a failure, and to make believe that it was a success, he purchased his own books (hard copies). He was not disappointed, because the book made him believe that he could write. No one ever told him he could write. But he knew he could write. This goes well with the fact that when you believe in yourself, you don’t want people telling you what to do. Maybe that was his strength. He knew it and that made him happy.

Bruce lived in Sharjah. This was his first year in the U.A.E.

The day he bought his first book that year, was a Sunday. He remembered the day well, because he had tripped over his underwear and had fallen. He went excitedly to buy the book with a broken nose.

It was ‘Blaze’ by Stephen King. He knew why he admired Stephen King, which made him buy King’s books even at a secondhand store. It wasn’t the fun of buying books, but, he considered books as an asset. He learnt tricks from authors too easily like he smelt his books.

Halfway through reading ‘Blaze’ in one sitting, his wife had called him to make tea. He realized that he had a bookmark given by the store. He had not bothered to check it. What grabbed his attention was the orange bookmark with SIBF written on it. It talked about a book fair in November, and in Sharjah.

2

November 9, Saturday.

Stephen King was visiting the SIBF, or, the Sharjah International Book Fair. Many celebrated writers would attend the fair and the forum at the massive conference halls.

The King was on one such forum, and the pamphlets had spread far and wide, like tentacles reaching out to capture all book worms. Like Bruce, many adored the King and had planned to meet him.

Bruce knew that too. He was so excited that he made a list of books that he would purchase at the fair. He wanted to meet the King. He was excited about the prospect of taking a picture of the King (his wife was a good photographer). Maybe he would frame a jumbo picture of the King and himself to adorn the hall.

He did not tell his wife. He wanted to give her a surprise. He even practiced a few liners of some interviews that he had watched on YouTube. He probably thought he could interview the King. However, his mind did not agree with that. The king will be with security. The U.A.E police will not allow a gnat to touch their client.

However, he listed down a few questions (just a maybe, if he had the faintest chance to interview) and practiced it in front of the mirror. He would joke and interview his pet budgies, who would listen to him solemnly. The only time they would chatter was when Bruce was not around.

3

The SIBF was in clamour, jostled by enthusiasts and volunteers. All wanted to see the King.

Bruce did not expect this, although he had a presumption that it might turn out to be this wild, but, never did he imaging this much. He was in the third row behind eager men and women wanting to take a glimpse of the great man. The thought of interviewing the King was forgotten.

When the convoy arrived, a beige Limo first, a band played. Tall Sheikhs clad in snow white dress walked in the hall, and behind him came a waving figure of the King himself with that effervescent smile, loved by many. There was a loud cheer. Bruce had managed to gather a bouquet from somewhere, and he was somehow pushed to the front row by people who did not know what they were doing in that confusion. It happens to the most organized crowd.

The King moved slowly shaking hands with each reaching hands, cracking jokes, still waving and posing his tall bent frame (for a selfie) with fans and some others, who mistook him for a movie superstar (of course, not knowing that he was a literary superstar).

As the king approached near, Bruce stood nervous, his guts ripped, and he felt a heavy thud in his heart with butterflies in his stomach. He kept looking at the King as if he was an assassin waiting to take an aim. There was a sudden disinterest, a scepticism that took over Bruce. He took a step backward and somebody, maybe Vinith or maybe Prakash, snatched the bouquet from his hand. Bruce was gone. The king had a glimpse of the vanishing Bruce.

4

That night when Sharjah was asleep, Bruce was reading the last chapter of Blaze.