Ambition takes people by different ways. Some want to be rich without rivals; others want to be scientists; and there are yet others who want to break the record in some human line of action or the other. I, too have one special form of ambition. I do not know what I shall turn out to be an engineer, vagabond, an official for a clerk. But my ambition is to be a writer.

My ambition to be a writer

It is a strange kind of ambition, I know. It is strange especially in this country as a writer almost invariably fails to make a decent living. But I am not after money. And Since I need not make much money out of my writings. I shall not be temped to write in order to please the public. I shall write as I please. I should write as Tagore wrote, because he had an urge for writing. I too have the urge, although I do not have the genius of Tagore or Prem Chand or their versatile pen. I shall not care for success or praise to criticism. I shall write to express all that is in me.

My plans

I have plans for two or three novels also. is about a friends of mine, who is something of a fool, and an interesting fool. I shall write his story and show it to him but he will not be able to know that it is about him. The second, I need not tell you. About the third novel, it is all to me but I no not really know what sort of a book it is going to be. But I can assure you that it will not be something entirely silly.” My reputation and money-I do not think that I shall go on writing things which people will not care for. A time will come when they will recognize their greatness. Then I shall have a great reputation and my books will be sold all over the world. I shall become a millionaire like George Bernard Shaw. But what shall I do with this money? I shall help the other needy writers and build home for them.


This is my ambition. I cannot be ridiculed as mere day-dreaming. But there is so much of chance. Accidents often bring nothing to the plans laid by men. Anything may happen and upset our calculations. The future is always very mysterious and indefinite. Yet hope springs eternally in human breast and man is always planning always thinking that the world nearer to his heart’s desire.

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