His main task was to get the right story for the right audience. He always felt he came up short in his duties. For there will always be someone who didn't quite agree with the stories he picked. It was a bitter pill for him to digest. That's when he met the doctor. It was in a seedy bar in the by-lanes of Mumbai. The doc was drunk and was shouting at anyone who dared to go near him. Pretty soon the bartender had to kick the doc out. That's when the doc uttered the magic words "Art is subjective you fool. Just like your wife."
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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