Works of RK

I just finished this book. It left me disturbed. All the hours spent lovingly turning the pages came to a naught. There was no poetic justice. The villain was not caught, the hero did not get the heroine. It opened up so many loops that never closed. It was like a dream interrupted, a limb torn off. Stories have no right to end this way. But some stories are like that. They are quite like our lives. Half lived. Like a dream interrupted and then lost to everyday living.

I miss many people in my life. I miss the dead but I miss some of the living a lot more. I can see them going about their daily lives, and their everyday lives look just as good without me. I miss a lot of people in my life. Those whom I miss, rarely miss me.

The next station is New Delhi. Gates will open on the left. The constant crooning of announcements lull me into a trance. As I consume time and distance, I don't want this ride to end. Everything is so clean. Everything so much in control. Each of us sit silently sullenly looking into some point on the roof that is really not there. Nobody catches my eye. They don't want me to remember them. Nobody wants to remember me either. It's a ride. And it is all paid for upfront.