The writer with the unpronounceable name peered at me from the pages. I guess he was also in a similar situation as mine. My name would've been difficult for his foreign tongue to master. Since he had no option of seeing me, I guess he was relieved on that front. But then what am I talking about? How can we see one another through a book? Or for that matter any piece of communication? Can you see me? Do you know who I am? Before you read on, try imagining who I am. What I do for a living. Where do I live. In fact, anything and everything about me that might catch your fancy. In the meantime, I will do the same about you.
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 ...
Comments
Post a Comment