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Eight-year old Aryan alighted from the schoolbus.The lost expression on his face was soon remoulded into a cheery smile; in front of him, on a bench, sat his grandfather. Aryan's grandfather smiled back at him. It was a daily exercise for him to pick up his grandson from the bus stop. He got up from his seat and held Aryan's hand. Together they walked in the direction of their home. A wobbling boy and a hobbling old man moved slowly down the lane, hand-in-hand.

A crumpled paper distorted this routinely scene. Projected from the window of a grey, musty-looking building, it rolled across the building to kiss Aryan's muddy little shoe. Aryan, like the 'good boy' he was, picked it up and threw it into the trashcan before holding his grandfather's hand again. The contents of the paper though, by which I mean the words contained within the fluidity of ink,deserved a nobler graveyard than the trash.

The launching pad of the deceased paper housed a young woman by the name of Ritu. Ritu, after having had a late lunch, had come across the letter in the afternoon mail. It was not the only one of its kind, Ritu had murdered four of its kin that month, each of which was subjected to the same ruthless wrinkling, crumpling and tearing.

Sushant had tried. Tried hard to tie again the frayed ends of the rope that were once the components of a subtle reef knot. The divorce papers lay in a transitory dimension, waiting impatiently. She had not decided, but she had ignored. And he had tried.

And Ritu had refused. The murders did not stop, for the martyrs kept flowing in. Each with but one sentence on its lips, "I have wrong and if you think I deserved to be forgived, meet me at Wither Park 8 p.m. tonight."

It was seven in her watch. "To go or to not go," the Shakespearean dilemma oscillated in her mind. She made a movement, and a countermovement soon after as the conflict in her mind grew bigger than ever.

The dispute was simple. He was practically useless. He had done not one thing to carry the burdens of their relationship. He had taken it lightly. He had done nothing. He had shrugged it all off. Why, he had just ignored! He had displayed an appalling attitude of  apathy! He had simply, simply not cared! While she was the one who had... who had.. who had...

What had she done? The question crept up in her mind. What had she done? She had done as much as him. And that, ofcourse, amounts to the same 'nothing' she had cursed, as both literati and mathematicians would agree.