Ahmad turned to the stack of copy editing clamoring for his attention. The mountain of paper
screamed of treachery, deceit and political corruption. It seemed at odds with the fake stories he
had to write as propaganda, but “The Public” didn’t seem to care about consistency. People
knew little of the secrets held by the military agencies. Truly critical matters were never
revealed, and “The Public” continued to mire itself in mindless minutiae.
Ahmad's thoughts drifted to something Albert Camus had written. A single sentence will suffice
for modern man. He fornicated and read the papers.
Everything that Ahmad had observed reflected that idea. People were like the ancient Romans
watching bloodthirsty spectacles at the Coliseum, except nowadays the blood was in the papers.
The masses were hooked on sensational reports, like drug addicts, ravenous for greater and
greater fixes to keep them sated.
Ahmad snapped back to the present, for the chaos of the copy editing tasks awaiting him.
Obviously, no one in this hellish job cared about Camus’s assertion. Ahmad’s gaze drifted to his
computer screen. There was a message waiting in his in-box. It was from his fiancée, Neelum.
His fingers hovered above the keyboard, the insults from their fight last night echoing in his ears.
“I can’t read this now,” he whispered. What if she wants to end things? All those complaints
about my floundering career. Two years and I still haven't been promoted. Journalism in
Pakistan is hellish, such a long time as a trainee. Even I’m losing patience with my pointless
life! Pain pierced his heart. Why does everything have to be measured in money? Isn't love
enough?
Ahmad decided to take Devan’s abandoned tea cup to the break-room, but found himself glued to
the wall of glass overlooking the tranquil public garden and its meandering pathways instead.
The hooker sat on a bench, smoothing the papers she had collected against her skirt. The sun
cast a golden veil on the trees and sparkled on the water dancing from the nearby fountain. The
wind tossed around whirls of dust. The girl appeared too absorbed in the written words to
notice. He couldn’t believe she was really a hooker. She seemed more interested in collecting
discarded papers from the public garden. She would carefully pick them up and stuff them in her
worn, black, leather bag. She clutched the strap as if she were hoarding unknown treasures.
A middle-aged office worker approached and sat down beside the hooker. They spoke, but
Ahmad could only guess what they were discussing. It appeared they could not agree on a price
because the man moved on, and the