Illusion is the convenient belief by which we discard the truth. Venkat is not a hero, his mind is mired in fault lines. News tires him. He refuses to read the news online, he prefers a real newspaper, the crisp feel in his hands and the certainty of newsprint. It is the best way to digest horror of real news with the sprinkle of quotes every morning. Venkat loves quotes; he has a storehouse of them tucked away in his memory. Say Oscar Wilde and he will flick his fingers and tell you, “I think God, in creating man, somewhat overestimated his ability.” Or, say Thiruvalluvar, and his brow will rise as he spouts the Kural, “Those who pretend to know what they don’t will be thought ignorant of even what they know.” It offers him the assurance he normally doesn’t have, all neatly embedded in his memory. Whichever way he looks, at the sunset, or in the grocery store, in the company bus or, inevitably, when his mother calls him about somebody’s daughter he should meet. Inevitably, Socrates challenges him with a mustard smile. “By all means, marry. If you get a good wife you will be happy. If you get...
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