I know it. I can feel it. There is a strange stillness in the air that heralds the end of life for me. Leaves rustle without wind. Wings of birds flutter ominously as they nestle amongst each other in sleep. A dog howls at the moon, it seems to me like it is baying for the dead. And I have just broken the vow.
In the remotest interiors of India, there exists an unremarkable village. It is not very large, is near neither the highway nor the sea, has neither natural scenic beauty nor historical importance, no popular film star has made a home in it, nor is it the haunt...
Read the full story in the March 2012 issue of Big Pulp
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