Reading, The Darling, a short story by Anton Chekhov at bedtime, I was enthralled at the universal disbandonment of the human emotion. And in this case, featuring one soul's unecessary indispensability towards another, that serves to bring only sorrow.

Olenka suffers misfortune from good fortune. A lady described sweeter than a candy bar; she thrives on love that encircles her like a peek-a-boo ring-of-roses game and so is unable to measure solitude in any given time.

She marries men, one after another, the first a theatre manager dies and so too, the dull timber manager later on and finally, she falls into the arms of a self-centered vet.

Each cheery relationship attempts to masquerade this dark truth that settles itself like fine sly thread into lazy conversations. The dialogues mould themselves on Olenka's man of the moment - his work, health, accounts etc. A sacrificial identity is telling.

She learns no lessons but continues to make herself indispensable to people who may simply tell her to shut up and go away.

The story builts a thoughtful lesson for the self that I suspect may jolly along as a vivid illustration every now and then.