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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