I have always avoided books that make me feel heavy. Stories that linger after the last page is turned. Characters who breathe down your neck long after the book is closed. Truths that feel a little too familiar. I have skipped sad movies and walked away from brooding documentaries. I have leaned toward stories that leave me lighter. I prefer fictions that do not press too hard.

But then, I picked up The Trial by Kafka because my elder brother was reading it.

I do not know why. Maybe it was curiosity. Maybe it was something I could not name. But it did not take long for the absurdity to seep in. Not just the absurdity of the plot. That, in itself, is classic Kafka. But the absurdity of how familiar it all felt. A man trapped in a system, accused without explanation, waiting endlessly for justice while the machinery of the institution grinds forward without a face. As a lawyer, I felt it in my bones.

There is a kind of quiet collapse Kafka writes about. It is not loud. It is not even dramatic. It is just a slow erasure of logic, of fairness, of dignity. And it mirrors what I sometimes witness in real life. Courtrooms echo with purpose, but often carry exhaustion. Files are heard, but not always read. Systems work, but not always for those who need them the most.

I did not plan to carry the book with me, but I did. I took it out for a walk.

It was drizzling. Just enough rain to blur your vision but not enough to stop you from walking. I walked about a kilometer with Kafka in one hand and today’s unread Indian Express folded and tucked inside the book as a bookmark. It was not a literary decision. Just habit. A pause in the absurdity. The paper sagged slightly from the rain, trying to stay relevant for one more hour.

I wanted to walk more. Maybe a couple more kilometers. Let the greyness soak in. Let the words settle, not just in thought but in my limbs. But the day had been long. Court had drained me. Conversations had pulled. So I turned around. My shoes were wet and my mind felt heavier than usual. I came home hoping the mangoes were ripe.

That is the thing about days like this. You carry Kafka in one hand and a newspaper in the other. You walk through the rain with questions that do not end. You feel the weight of institutions and inefficiencies and invisible systems. And yet you come home hoping that there is something soft and sweet waiting in the fridge.

I still do not know why I picked up The Trial. But I know why I will keep reading it.

Not because I want to feel sad.

But because I want to understand why I avoid feeling it.

And maybe that is what being human is.

To walk with difficult thoughts.

To come home tired.

To reach for a mango.

Later.