In Hour of Death
In a palatial room of the most pleasant city of the world, an old and feeble writer was lying on
his deathbed with open eyes. He was gazing at the ceiling without looking at any particular thing.
Shadows of death were passing across his face. It seemed as if he was facing pangs of death in
his soul.
He was not an ordinary man; he was a great writer who had won all the best awards of literature.
He had millions of readers in the world, but at this moment he was quite alone, waiting for
ghastly advancing death. Every passing moment was adding to his sense of loss. He was never in
love with life, but approaching death aroused some hidden desire to live.
He recalled his remarks on life, when once he was addressing a huge crowd: "Life is not
important for me, I am not afraid of death." Remembering that, a satirical smile appeared on his
withered face and he spoke in a murmuring voice. "One of the hundred lies which every 'great
man' utters to make himself worthy of his greatness." The fact was that he was dying like any
other creeping creature, despite his marvellous achievements and sagacious books, galled him.
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