I am sure that today in Marathi, he has a definite place as a writer. He is a humorous writer, and it is pointless to discuss whether he is better or worse that a certain poet or novelist or short story writer. These are all different genres and cannot be compared to one another. But Bhai's writing has a special quality. I feel that it is always fresh, exhilarating, capable of being read with pleasure again and again. Unfettered like a butterfly. Interesting, amusing, happy and blooming. Whenever you se a butterfly, you cannot help smiling because it flits about scattering joy. One has to admit that Bhai has been blessed with a huge readership of civilised, intelligent, well-read people. But if we are to talk of endurance, let us say that in the rushing waters of time, only a Shakespeare, a Sophocles or a Vyasa would prevail. Much time would have to pass before we can judge present literature by that measure. Many generations would have gone by then, and none of us would be around to hear the verdict. Bhai himself is fully aware that he will have been long forgotten. But he is human after all, and when certain critics or literati----- forgotten in their own lifetime-----call his writing frivolous, he is deeply hurt-----more deeply than he needs be. He hasn't the strength to say `Hang them!', nor the inclination. He is the only person I have ever seen without the slightest touch of envy. All his internal peace is due to this one virtue. But even while he enjoys this peace, he finds himself overlooked as a writer in some critical evaluation or the other of Marathi literature and he immediately feels insecure and begins to clutch at his non-literary honours, the various chairs he has graced, the various donations he has made, the various titles he has been the recipient of. He listens with childish pleasure to the fans who flatter him for these achievements. This is a human tragedy. I am saddened by it and want to fold him under my wing and soothe him and tell him, `No, no. You are bigger than all this. These are not the things you should be proud of. Learn a little fortitude and you will see that your own literary strength is enough to be a source of pride in your life. You don't need all these crutches.' And this helps, but only temporarily.

We are all of us individuals. We must stand firmly in our own soil, like a tree. We own the sky above us, don't we? Even a dried old tree like me knows it. Why not you who are evergreen? Even the singing birds came to nest in you. What more do you want? I say all this with my eyes closed. But I can't close my ears and so when the big Deshpande begins to snore, the smaller one turns over and goes to sleep as well.

Many times I feel that this man has been somewhat unjust to me. And if I had felt that he had done this deliberately, he would not have escaped whole in limb; I would have had my my revenge, at any price. Not because I am not merciful, but Justice rules the area of my life. He would have got his just deserts at my hands. The fact of the matter is he could not love. The strength to love comes with maturity and grows with age. Unfortunately, he did not grow. He remained a child and the selfishness, or self-centredness of childhood characterized him even in adult life. All the others got the mature artist and I got the child.