“I’ve written a book, and it’s been published. You must buy a copy,” I told my friend.
“Okay,” she replied. “But what are you doing to promote it?”
“Nothing much. The publisher is handling things on their end. I don’t have the money to organize an event. I’ve only created a Facebook page and a group.”
She thought for a moment and said, “You know, you can do one more thing—free of cost.”
“What’s that?”
“Our alumni meet is coming up in Mumbai. Many senior alumni who’ve reached the top in their fields will be felicitated. Back in my college days, people often launched their books at these meets. You could contact the alumni cell; they’d allot you a slot for your book launch. There will be more than 100 people attending, and you can even distribute some free copies.”
“That’s a great idea,” I told her.
She connected me to the right person, and I got a slot for the launch. Strangely, instead of pure excitement, I felt fear. Standing on stage and speaking about my book was scarier than any ghost story. In college, I had skipped many presentations simply to avoid speaking in public. Even when I had good questions during case discussions, I’d rehearse them endlessly in my head but never raise my hand. In two years of my course, I’d spoken in class only four times—twice because nobody else knew the answer.
Now the D-day was approaching, and I hadn’t even booked tickets.
“I’ll just get a Tatkal ticket,” I told myself.
Deep down, I wanted to go, but another part of me secretly wished to miss the train. Eventually, I booked a seat in the chair car—18 hours from Delhi to Mumbai, overnight. Sitting upright the whole night was exhausting, but I reached my friend’s place the next morning. While he was at work, I slept, but anxiety kept me restless. That evening, I confessed my fear to him. He tried to motivate me, but it didn’t help. I barely slept that night.
On Sunday morning, we had tea at a nearby stall. The event was in the evening. The topic was simple: my own book, which had taken five years to write. Still, my mind refused to rest. By 4 p.m. we went shopping for groceries, trying to stay casual. I acted calm around him, but inside I was restless.
We returned home around 6:30 p.m., but the door wouldn’t open. My friend kept trying. I pretended to be desperate, but secretly, I felt relieved—maybe I wouldn’t have to face the audience after all. Eventually, the door opened, and there was no turning back. I got ready quickly and told myself, Let’s just go and rock it.
We reached Hotel Sea Princess. Fear gripped me again as we entered. I kept repeating my script in my head until a junior from the Alumni Cell greeted us. The organizer said I’d speak at the very end. That only added to my nerves.
“Pavan, I’m scared,” I admitted.
“Don’t worry. Just give your best. It’s not that hard,” he said.
“Easy for you to say.”
He dragged me downstairs to a quieter spot and tried to reason with me: “It’s your book. You don’t need to prepare. You can answer anything. The only challenge is standing there.”
Finally, he suggested, “Let’s have a drink.”
We had pegs of Teacher’s 50. I downed mine bottoms-up, hoping to numb the anxiety. But anxiety won. My heart pounded harder as my turn approached. Pavan even offered to speak for me, but I refused. Whatever happened, I had to face it.
When my moment came, I stepped onto the stage, hiding my nerves as best I could. I began to talk about my book. To my surprise, the audience smiled at a few points, which boosted my confidence. I ended on a strong note.
Later, Pavan told me I had done better than 80% of the speakers that day. I don’t know if he meant it or just wanted to encourage me.
Either way, I slept soundly that night—finally at peace.
