dripping jaws of autumn . An atmosphere I did not belong to . Stagnation -- apathy -- entropy -- life there was a sad mystery .
Were these only dark thoughts echoing in my already distressed mind , or was this seed of malcontent very real ? I didn ' t know .
The road was familiar to me . Twice a day , I walked on it and encountered Bengalis , Philippines , Sudanese , Egyptians , Indians , and Pakistani , almost from the entire poor world . They had come there to make money and to fight against the eternal hunger of their lands , to fill empty stomachs of their families . They all were coming back from their long shifts in industries . They never had time to turn their faces . How full of life they had been in their youth , lost in fantasies and gentle dreams . How terrified they became as little by little truth made them cold and indifferent . They had left everything behind -- children , wives , homes . But the future did not yet belong to them , nor would it belong to their children , nor even to their children ' s children because they belonged to the world where a terror of royal flesh prevailed . I was one of those many faces , out of my poor country , Pakistan , in search of livelihood . Many years ago I wrote some stories . I believed I would find the same stories again . Neil Marr , an editor of western literary magazine , had many times reminded me that I was a writer and I must write stories . How could I tell him that my mind had become an empty trash . Filled with the needs of daily life . I had to work from dawn to dusk . The monotonous routine had swallowed many years of my life . I had a small sweet daughter behind , whom I had not seen since her birth . But Neil Marr was still asking me for new stories . Wow ! I myself had become a story in search of stories .
Lost in my melancholic thoughts I reached the seashore . Wild tides were smashing on the shore like a desperate animal . The cold wind would have frozen me if I had not entered the restaurant . Aslam , the waiter , recognized me and gave a warm smile of welcome .
" Hello , Professor , take a seat . Nobody comes in this killing weather ."
I thanked him with a smile and sat at the corner- table . The sitar music of Pakistan , a great achievement of human civilization , spoke to me with impossible complexities . The wild tides of sea outside reminded me of " Time " by P . B . Shelley :
" Unfathomable sea ! Whose waves are years . Ocean of time , whose waters of deep woe Are brackish with the salt of human tears !"
I got up to see the descending sun and stood there until it was completely lost . When I returned to my table , I found professor Ramnath sitting there , staring out of the window .
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