He lay there motionless watching the ants marching on the ceiling. Right from his childhood he had this fascination for ants. He never used to get tired of the ant and the grasshopper story. He tried remembering the various types of ants he had come across in his life. The red ones, the black ones, the tiny grey ones, the big black ones, the sour ants, the hard stingers, the ticklers... the list went on and on, just like the ants on the wall. Later that day, when the cleaner lady found him lifeless on his bed, he had ants of every shape and size coming out of his brain.
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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