Dust on Plants

This novel— —about a woman Solitary drop thrown just like that anywhere on a blank sheet. “I feel I am a nomad, wandering since God known when in search of a home” —story of her reality. —Love story of those having nothing in common, not even age. —Reality of our education system, shops of religion, stinking families. As she had been in distress all along, may be, even a little happiness pinched her and instantly she pushed herself back to morbidity. On such occasions, Prem Prakash felt as if a ghost entered her being, dragged her out of the happy state and threw her back into morbidity. She would herself kick and scatter things which built up those few happy moments. Are they human beings plants, with dust on them?