“It is the same thing that turns life into death,” he replies. In jail, Plato was denied stimulation of any kind—pens, newspapers, tea, conversations, hope. He was denied a life, even that of an ant or a cockroach. By the end, it wasn’t the isolation that got to him but the sheer waste of time. Wrongly labeled a terrorist by Indian intelligence, he is afraid he may become one, if only to avenge the time lost. “Change,” says Plato. “Something needs to happen. Without it, a story is dead. We are dead.”
