The line stitched into highways;
The never ending seams,
On roads that are less travelled,
Dividing you and me.
-Lang leav
T
he morning came and went. The Sun arose higher but there was yet no sign of Meena, his wife. With the first golden beam of sun, Nair had abandoned his bed where he had tossed and turned restlessly all throughout the night.
With no mind to change or freshen, he had then went to the room previously acquired by Meena and knocked, only to notice the large iron lock dangling on the latch. Yet and still he had knocked many times irrespective of what a fool he was making of himself in front of guards and maids, called her, afraid that his livid mother might have got her captive in that room.
Alas, no reply came.
Storming throughout the palace grounds, he had then
