There are days when Piklu stays late at or arrives early to his office to be alone. He switches off his smartphone, the surveillance cameras, and the Internet to ensure that his aloneness is untouched. He becomes a tourist in the office space he created from scratch and stares at its beauty once again for the first time. He looks at his faint reflection on the glass-wall overlooking the city: his mirror eyes sparkle at the satisfaction of his creation. He finds a strange peace in watching the calm chairs, perfecting their loyal stillness, and celebrating their life-long singularity. Every trace of dirt he carefully wipes away from the printer's tray does cleanse his mind of the toxicity humans loan and borrow from each other. Piklu rearranges the books in his library; he invents criteria as strange as the colour shade of the book cover for giving an image makeover to his library. He feels a strong bond with the authors, whom he is eternally grateful to, for bailing him out of the prison of the mind. Again and again. He talks to them and speaks to the characters they created, and he finds the world in different versions at the same time. There is the urgency of escaping a riot and the need to build schools for the children and the importance of empathising with the harsh life of a transgender and the lessons for the 21st century and the feeling of having sex with a married diva immediately after sketching her portrait. People Piklu knows become those characters. Kashmir, Kabul, New York, Somalia, Rome. All the worlds, characters, feelings, and stories merge into one in the tranquility of the moment.
Those moments are powerful glimpses of his rare unconditional love. Unconditional love towards his solitude, which he earned from dealing with his self-imposed loneliness and his paradoxical craving for romance, from condom-less sex and soul-less lovemaking. The suffering runs deep through his smiles at the unsmiling faces and his compassion towards the avoided ones. Smile as wide as the wings of an eagle and compassion as melting as the love of a mother. Pleasure can be tiring and happiness can be exhausting. Piklu's penis pains from orgasmic sex and mind quivers from frequent gratifications. He tries to reconcile the kindness within him to the wildness within his penis. He feels human.
The office collects his sufferings and turns them into his reason. Reason to make humans a little more human. He finds the reason to humanise demons. The strange peace inside Piklu's oft-restless mind is probably higher than what "rest in peace" has to offer. Time stops moving in a straight line. The joy of choosing to be alone with his ideas and his office is quietly loud. Mortals seem to be just one infinitesimal element of love.