Shankar was nothing if not meticulous. He did everything in an orderly fashion and the one bedroom, sparkly clean apartment of his was a standing proof of it. There was never a thing out of its place with clothes hanging in a row in the compact wardrobe; handkerchiefs, vest and underpants folded in a symmetrical pattern and arranged in respective drawers. One would never find a coffee stain on the table, the floors were shiny and not a speck of dust could meet any fingertips. All this managed by the man alone with no woman in his life, not even a domestic help.
Shankar himself was a vision for sore eyes – his hair never out of place and the clothes were perpetually wrinkle free as if no one existed within it; his car sparkled even on the dusty roads. In a world of mess and chaos, Shankar was laughed at and looked down upon. People called him a simpleton.
“Shankar, look your shirt button popped out”, they would tease him.
“There is tea stain on your desk”, they would bother him
