There lived a man, a long, long time ago in a country far, far away. He was a good man. Of course, he had also succumbed to the lure of youthful indiscretion but now he was, for all purposes, a good man. He helped people who could not help themselves (sometimes even those who could and that always led to a black eye or two, but, like I said, his intentions were good). He was always there when anyone needed a shoulder to cry on. So, what if he was the very reason they needed that shoulder in the first place? Atleast, he was there when needed most and that speaks volumes of his compassionate nature.

He never lied to or deceived anyone - he did not have to. His brute strength enabled him to fleece them openly. It is still, however, noteworthy, that he did not have to stoop to the level of a backstabber. Wherever he went, he roused the strongest of feelings in people towards him, not that all were those of love and respect but there was awe in them, nonetheless. He spread happiness around - his happiness, that is. But, all that was to change in the winter of the following year.

On that fateful day, he suffered an irreplaceable loss, a loss that though did not hamper his life deeply did cause certain moments of discomfort. Who could be so cruel to him? Why would anyone deceive him? What had he done so wrong that someone would be barbaric enough to steal his trusted paperweight?

That transformed the way he looked at life. He did not believe in integrity anymore. He began to think that the world was a good place for only those who could lie, cheat and decieve. There was no place in it for a man who never had to resort to uncouth means to get what he wanted. In short, he had thought that terrorising people was all that was required to have your way.

And, when a man goes through a phase in his life he realises that whatever ideals had guided his life so far were nothing but false, then everything that he has believed in thus far has no meaning to him anymore. He was not his self anymore - oh yes, he had his way but the sting had doubled.

Could you blame him? Ask anyone who needs a paperweight during a sandstorm. Those thin sheets can be quite a devil then. They go all over the place and it is a harrowing experience gathering them up, only to find out that you have to do it all over again. These flying objects can take the form of a dangerous projectile and cause numerous papercuts. An injured man is always bound to strike back hard.

Now, he could only wait. And, hope that someday he would find what he had lost. Or better still, the rat responsible for it.

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