Ink on the Paper

NOTE: This post is a result of the inexplicable and sudden occurrence of the title of the post in the writer's mind. I don't know what he was thinking about then! * EviL * Sometimes I write out of experience. Sometimes, on mere observations and knowledge. Well, today is a case of the latter... Yeah !! This is no place to confess your love for someone. NO !! After composing about half of this post, I thought of adding this one too: This is NOT a handbook to a successful love life. If you have any doubts, PLEASE READ #2 -------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Some things are Easier said than done. But love; Against the rule book? Well, when has it not been? * wink-wink * Barring the love of one's family, hereby, I speak of love : Call it 'love' and everybody starts jumping around like it is the 1st of January ! Call it, as per the Oxford dictionary - ...

This is a piece of fiction , nothing else.. ENJOY! In search of one Harshad Dahake, I turned once more to the right, this time to enter Saraswati Lane. " Finally !", I thought, looking at my watch again. 10:30 in the morning . "Why did you have to come today?" I demanded angrily (for at least a hundredth time) of the 'urgent' parcel, which was sitting on my lap now. That god-forsaken parcel had arrived just this morning. A call from the office had announced, for my unseeking ears to hear and my unwilling brain to accept, that I was responsible for its delivery. What I was about to witness next was something I had never seen before. Everything at Saraswati Lane was so still and lifeless , I could literally hear myself breathe. And so were the insides of 130, Saraswati Lane, II-T own (that was the address on the parcel), just like all the other houses in the neighborhood. Not that I could get in. If one happened to pass by, they would wonder if an...