I am the one your mother had warned you against. He didn't know what to do next. He was a happy go lucky guy having a nice Friday afternoon in a downtown pub. He had met her on his way to the rest room. She burst out of the ladies giggling at some joke. He was hooked. Maybe it was the half pitcher of beer that was sloshing around in his abdomen that did the trick. He desperately wanted to strike a conversation with her. Every time he made a move, it seemed that the whole pub and its occupants thwarted him. He was at his wits end. That's when he thought of reaching out to her through the bartender. The bartender seemed to have succeeded. He returned with a little piece of paper. He hoped that was her contact number. Looked like she had other plans than to hit it off with a drunken fool. He tried to read the note again. It didn't make any sense. She never knew my mother, so how can my mother warn me about her? His head was hurting from trying to decipher the message. Already two pitchers had disappeared into his body. The alcohol was kicking in slow and steady. He staggered to the restroom again. He saw her again on his way. She didn't look anything like what he saw first. She was different. She was an angel with wings now. She was flying. He wanted to fly too. But a strong hand gripped him from behind and he was flying out of the door. As he lay there on the sidewalk thinking about her, a dog came along and relived itself on his foot. How can you write such crap? The question startled the author. He was just a happy go lucky guy trying to pen a story on a nice Friday afternoon.
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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