A man investigates holes. They differ in size.
A man offers anarchy for sale. He appears to be wading in space, searching for something with his long arms. He eats nothing but the giant lemon found in the lakes of blood in the hearts of the young. That too, only once a day.
A man spends time singing Raga Khamboji. It is not unnecessary to remind you that he has a flute with him. He has fingers only to legislate the ragas sung at appropriate times. At their touch stars catch fire. Lakes on the moon come to a boil. Winter begins to bud and my heart begins to offer marriage to the butterfly.
A man puts camphor in his eyes and red lead on his cheeks. He is a poet. He interprets the messages he receives in secret code and works for the air force. He is the one big reason for the fall of prices in the market.
A man meditates with a string of rudraksha beads around his neck. What’s the use of your knowing that there’s no use in my pleading with people not to break coconuts in front of him?
A man loves only one woman. She dies. Follow the rest of the story on the silver screen.
A man gets hanged. Society buys peace with his death. The law sighs with relief. Every evening a blind dog visits the spot where his blood was spilled and barks piteously. This man was so proud he refused to say he was unjustly hanged.
A man becomes great by making speeches. Another becomes poor by drinking too much. One takes a copper from his maternal aunt and buys a kite. Another grabs it from him.
A man runs away. Another screws up his life. Another gets married. One man sleeps. Another dozes. Another talks and talks away time. One man’s crying makes you laugh; another’s laugh makes you cry. I can prove this with examples
And on and on and on and on and on and on and on.
Sir, when will this end?
Son, this is endless.
