He turned the tap and waited for the familiar whoosh of emptiness. For him this has become a ritual. It's been years since even a drop trickled down that spout. He never bothered to think why. For him it was just a ritual now. It all started on one sweltering summer day when he wanted a sip to slake his thirst. The tap was like a mirage in the hot afternoon sun. He scalded his fingers touching it. All that he wanted was a cool splash. All that came out was a warm gust of air. He fiddled with the tap again. Frustration goaded him to kick the tap. But he couldn't. Instead he became obsessed with it. He wanted to drink the first drop that comes out through that tap. When will that day be? He doesn't know. All that he knows is that the chances of water coming out of a disconnected tap is as rare as the drop of water for which he was waiting.
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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