I could see her alcoholic enough and annoyed enough. (About what — about undermining Sameer? About harming me? About needing me and not him? Still pissed about betraying Ayushi?) I could see her gazing intently at the cop vehicle and focusing on it and not caring the slightest bit about any other individual, not thinking about her guarantee to me, not thinking about her dad or anybody, and that bitch, that bitch, she committed suicide. Yet, no. No. That was not her. No. She said To proceed. Obviously. “No.” “That is no joke,” the Colonel said. He dropped the book, plunked down on the bed close to me, and put his temple in his grasp. “Who travels six miles off grounds to commit suicide? Doesn’t bode well. Be that as it may, ‘straight and quick.’ Bit of an odd feeling, right? We don’t have the foggiest idea of what occurred, looking at this logically. Where she was going, why. Who called. Somebody called, right, or did I make—” And the Colonel continued talking, figuring it out, while I got the book and discovered my way to that page where the overall’s head-first race arrived at its end, and we were both latched onto our subconscious minds, the distance between us unbridgeable, and I was unable to tune in to the Colonel since I was caught up with attempting to get the last traces of her smell, occupied with disclosing to myself that she had not done it. It was me—I had done it, thus had the Colonel. He could attempt to figure right out of it, however, I knew better, realized that we would be nothing yet entirely, reprehensibly liable. eight days after Tuesday—we had school interestingly. Madame Marin had a snapshot of quietness toward the start of French class, a class that was constantly accentuated with long snapshots of quietness, and afterward asked us how we were feeling. “Dreadful,” a young lady said. “Namaste, “Madame Marin answered. “Namaste.” Everything appeared to be identical, yet more still: the Weekday Warriors sat on the seats outside the library, yet their tattle hushed up, downplayed. The cafeteria clamored with the hints of the plastic plate against wooden tables and forks scratching plates, yet any discussions were quieted. In any case, more than the quiet of every other person was the quietness where she ought to have been, the percolating blasting narrating Rosy, however, rather it seemed like those occasions when she had removed into herself, similar to she was declining to address how or why questions, just this time for great. The Colonel plunked down close to me in religion class, murmured, and said, “You smell of smoke, Pudge.” “Inquire as to whether I care at all.” Dr. Kabir rearranged into class at that point, our last tests of the year stacked under one arm. He plunked down, took a progression of toiled breaths, and started to talk. “It is a law that guardians ought not to need to cover their kids,” he said. “Also, somebody ought to uphold it. This semester, we will keep contemplating the strict customs to which you were presented this fall. However, there’s no questioning that the inquiries we’ll be posing have more instantaneousness now than they did only a couple of days prior. What befalls us after we bite the dust, for example, is not, at this point an issue of inactive philosophical interest. It is an inquiry we should pose about our cohort. Also, how to live in the shadow of sadness isn’t something anonymous Buddhists, Christians, and Muslims need to investigate. The inquiries of strict idea have become, I suspect, individual.” He rearranged through our tests, hauling one out from the heap before him. “I have here Rosy’s conclusive. You’ll review that you were posed what the main inquiry confronting individuals is, and how the three customs we’re examining this year address that question. This was Rosy’s inquiry.” With a murmur, he seized his seat and lifted himself out of it, at that point composed on the chalkboard: How will we at any point escape this maze of torment?— A. Y. “I will leave that up for the remainder of the semester,” he said. “Since every individual who has at any point lost their way in life has felt the irritating demand of that question. Sooner or later we as a whole gaze upward and acknowledge we are lost in a labyrinth, and I don’t need us to fail to remember Rosy, and I would prefer not to fail to remember that in any event, when the material we study appears to be exhausting, we’re attempting to see how individuals have responded to that question and the inquiries every one of you presented in your papers—how various customs have dealt with what Roger, in his last, called ‘individuals’ spoiled parcels throughout everyday life.'” Kabir plunked down. “Anyway, how are you folks getting along?