Its been a year since I set foot on Indian soil. When I packed my bags the economy was booming. The rupee was growing stronger by the day. NRIs like me were flocking to return to the motherland. We were all convinced that India was rising. But, twelve months is all that it took for me to pack my bags again. Terrorists have struck three states. The economy is going nowhere. Inflation is soaring. The rupee is sliding fast. Time to don that NRI cloak once again and fly away.
I have to write. Those were the words that escaped the dying man's lips. He was found lying unconscious near a mountain of blank paper. His autopsy revealed over exhaustion as the reason. But what did he want to write so badly that it killed him, no one knows. The task was designated to the junior cop who was part of the investigation team. Let's call him Namura. So here we are with Namura in a room with the mountain of blank paper. He is awed as to why should there be so many papers near a dying man. He picks a sheet on the top. He studies it. It's as blank as blank papers can be. No pencil or pen has violated its virgin whiteness. Namura thinks of the white bed sheets back home. He is tired. All he wants is to crash on his bed. He feels angry about the whole situation. Here I am, staring at a blank piece of paper, wondering why someone who wanted to write so badly didn't write a single word, while the whole world is sleeping on their comfy beds. He wanted to tear the ...
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