A bank is a storehouse of money, mechanically preserving notes
which inspire healthy income of happiness.
“What’s money to me?” said the Strange Man, but the weather is too cold to linger outside. So he walks in, whistling to himself.
“Only this few people? Oh, money saved brings forth sound sleep, I forgot. Earn to save and thereby sleep to make love and pass on your savings to your future generation, who are seated on the threshold of witnessing modern tragedy, each day after they are born,” chuckled the man.
The world, he feels, is a strange place. For it is blessed with strangeness, caught in a circle of strange reasons and this incomprehensible strangeness keeps the world breathing.
He sees a cashier devotedly counting money.
“Whose money is it?” thought he, and suddenly he believes, “these notes have an aura of romanticism in them. These have crossed many hands, imprinted with touches of varied places and peoples. Notes are imbibed with feelings, a romantic languor to feel hands.”
He takes a cigarette out of his dusted pant and lights it.
“You can’t smoke here,” the Guard instructed him.
Perplexed, he stubs the cigarette.
“I’m just plain tensed with all my money in the lockers”, said the Strange Man. “Smoking relaxes me.”
“Strange, as it may seem, lying comes to me naturally. There’s no enterprise in being honest. Lie. And see the world lie with you. Look at the gun! Isn’t the gun heavier than the man? Poor chap. But why a gun? Ah, greed! Can a man, who steals money, sleep peacefully, with all those money at his place? He will need the bank soon. To save the money. Someone, like him, may steal it again. Ah, poor thief! He doesn’t even realize he will get trapped in the circle of restlessness once he tastes success,” ruminated the man.
Just then an Old Lady entered the bank. Once a beautiful woman to look at, now she is has been wrinkled with time. She sits next to the Strange Man. The man stares at her, and keeps on doing so until the lady, disturbed by such reckless attention, questions him, “do you want something, son?”
“I’ve not seen someone with so dense a white hair, and your skin has been diligently distorted with subtle wrinkles. I travel places. And I get things, for free of course, from those places as gifts from the place to me.” He searched for a thing and got a key-ring as a present for the Old Lady.
“I collected this priceless thing from the most beautiful place I’ve ever visited. Keep it. It is yours from today.”
Abruptly he gets up, smiles at her and leaves, whistling like he always does.
“What’s money to me?” said the Strange Man, but the weather is too cold to linger outside. So he walks in, whistling to himself.
“Only this few people? Oh, money saved brings forth sound sleep, I forgot. Earn to save and thereby sleep to make love and pass on your savings to your future generation, who are seated on the threshold of witnessing modern tragedy, each day after they are born,” chuckled the man.
The world, he feels, is a strange place. For it is blessed with strangeness, caught in a circle of strange reasons and this incomprehensible strangeness keeps the world breathing.
He sees a cashier devotedly counting money.
“Whose money is it?” thought he, and suddenly he believes, “these notes have an aura of romanticism in them. These have crossed many hands, imprinted with touches of varied places and peoples. Notes are imbibed with feelings, a romantic languor to feel hands.”
He takes a cigarette out of his dusted pant and lights it.
“You can’t smoke here,” the Guard instructed him.
Perplexed, he stubs the cigarette.
“I’m just plain tensed with all my money in the lockers”, said the Strange Man. “Smoking relaxes me.”
“Strange, as it may seem, lying comes to me naturally. There’s no enterprise in being honest. Lie. And see the world lie with you. Look at the gun! Isn’t the gun heavier than the man? Poor chap. But why a gun? Ah, greed! Can a man, who steals money, sleep peacefully, with all those money at his place? He will need the bank soon. To save the money. Someone, like him, may steal it again. Ah, poor thief! He doesn’t even realize he will get trapped in the circle of restlessness once he tastes success,” ruminated the man.
Just then an Old Lady entered the bank. Once a beautiful woman to look at, now she is has been wrinkled with time. She sits next to the Strange Man. The man stares at her, and keeps on doing so until the lady, disturbed by such reckless attention, questions him, “do you want something, son?”
“I’ve not seen someone with so dense a white hair, and your skin has been diligently distorted with subtle wrinkles. I travel places. And I get things, for free of course, from those places as gifts from the place to me.” He searched for a thing and got a key-ring as a present for the Old Lady.
“I collected this priceless thing from the most beautiful place I’ve ever visited. Keep it. It is yours from today.”
Abruptly he gets up, smiles at her and leaves, whistling like he always does.
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