‘Maneck took the opportunity to slip in a bit of praise, to ensure that the story continued. “You know, you’re the first proofreader I’ve met. I would have guessed they’d be very dull people, but you speak so … with such … so differently. Almost like a poet.”
‘”And why shouldn’t I? For twenty-four years, the triumphs and tragedies of our country quickened my breath, making my pulse sing with joy or quiver with sorrow. In twenty-four years of proofreading, flocks of words flew into my head through the windows of my soul. Some of them stayed on and built nests in there. Why should I not speak like a poet, with a commonwealth of language at my disposal, constantly invigorated by new arrivals?” He gave a mighty sigh. “Until that wet day, of course, when it was all over. When the windows were slammed shut. And the ophthalmologist sentenced me to impotence, saying that my proofreading days were behind me.”
‘”Couldn’t he give you new spectacles or something?”
‘”That wouldn’t have helped. The trouble was, my eyes had become virulently allergic to printing ink.” He spread his hands in a gesture of emptiness. “The nectar that nurtured me had turned to poison.”
‘”Then what did you do?”
‘”What can anyone do in such circumstances? Accept it, and go on. Please always remember, the secret of survival is to embrace change and to adapt. To quote: ‘All things fall and are built again, and those that build them again are gay.’”‘
‘”Yeats?” guessed Maneck.
‘The proofreader nodded.’
(Rohinton Mistry, A Fine Balance)
