Ink on the Paper

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...