Summary of the story of Aap Beeti by Munshi Premchand.
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Answer:
A time often comes in the life of literary writers when their fans start writing respectful letters to them. Some praise the way they write and others are mesemerised by the their clean thoughts. Yours truly is also graced with such opportunity for past some time. Only a receiver of such letters can explain how flattering these letters are. Sitting on his torn blanket*, he is immersed in the proud floods of self esteem. He forgets (*Indian writers of early part of 20th century used to be quite poor) what a headache it is to prepare food from wet woods in the night. How bugs and mosquitoes troubled him throughout the night. He rises to new hights with the tought that - "I am someone". Last spring I got a similar letter. It bestowed a hearty praise on my writings.
The sender was himself a poet. I had often seen his poems in the magazines. I was delighted to read the letter. I sat down to to reply immidiately. I don't remmeber what all I wrote but what I do remember is that the letter was full of love and affection right from the word go. I have never written poem all my life; but I used sophisticated words in the letter. So much so, that I almost mistook it for a poem while reading it again.
There started a chain of letters in which I was refered to as "dear brother", a list of my creations and addresses of my publishers were asked for. I the end, there was a mention of good news that "my wife dotes over your writings. She devours your creations, and was inquiring about your family. If possible send a photograph. This was the first time I was praised by a female, be her a married women. (* Some boring stuff deleted ).
I soon had the honour of meeting this gentlman. It was august and 3'oclock in the afternoon. I was sitting in a friends house and we were playing cards when he came asking for me. He introduced himself as Umapati and suggested that we go to my house. As I was about to leave, a friend called me aside and asked about Umapati.
me - " A new friend of mine "
friend - "be carefull. He looks like a rougue"
me - "No. You are wrong. You judge people by their pompous dress. But humans don't exist in attire. He exists in the heart."
He kept quite.
We came home and started chatting. He recited his new poems to me. His voice was melodious. I didn't get the deeper meaning of the poems, but I showered him with praises, as if a greater appreciator of poems didn't exist in the world. In the evening we went out to the fair. In the night he had dinner with us.
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