In a palatial room of the most pleasant city of the world, an old and feeble writer was lying on death-bed with open eyes. He was gazing on the roof 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 any ordinary man, he was a great writer who had won all the greatest awards of literature. He had millions of readers in world, but at the moment he was quite alone, waiting for fastly advancing death. He was facing the fatal disease and had very limited hours to live. 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." Remembring that, a satarical smile appeared on his withered face and he spoke in 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, depite his marvellous achievements and sagacious books. Long ago he had longed for death when he had too many failures in life; when he was forced to obey the debased orders of his disgusting masters only for few coins; when faded pale faces of children and violence of the masters of land had even ceased his belief in God... yes life was very miserable and disgusting then in poverty. Poverty snatches away all the dignity and liberty of man and he becomes the most humiliating creature. But now when he had everything of his desire death was approaching him with its over-frothing face... what an irony of fate.

At that fatal moment he did not feel himself different from a dying dog which he saw in his childhood, in a hot summer noon. He did not know then that he would recall that death-sight after so many years at the hour of his own death. He still remembered that upper part of the neck of that dog was wounded by fire of rascal hunter and it was severely infected. Steadily it spread in his body and worms started eating him. Nobody cared the pain of dog... for it was the world of 'pure humans'. Writer never saw him sitting anywhere; he always would run here and there due to intolerable pain. One day it lay down accepting the victory of worms. Before dying he stood up uttered a feeble painful cry and then fell to be finished for ever. Half of his body was already eaten by worms before being presented to earth-worms.

Dying writer made all efforts to crush the image of dying dog but it had overwhelmed all his memory. He wanted to spend his last moments in pleasant memories but the image of dying dog had captured his mind and soul. He turned his eyes towards the hanging medals and pictures in room. He recalled the sights and visions of his youth and stopped his sight at one picture, "What a combination of youth and dreams! My God, if I had a piece of life, I would return to those days of youth when I had a lot of desires and big mountains to climb," he thought. Now when he was the most popular writer of the world, he was longing to go back in the days of hunger and miseries. He again wanted to face the pangs of failure and anguish of rejection. He wanted to enjoy the pleasures of the mettle of youth again as among giant evils he used to survive merely because of his colossal will... the will which defeated owl-monsters. How beautiful was the moment when his beloved gave him warm kiss, on publication of his first story. Rememberence of that sweet kiss soothed relieved him for a while, in the torturing feelings of death... the kiss which once healed all his wounds of deprivations. How lovingly she seperated her lips to say, "I am proud of you." He heard the echo of that sweet sentence in whole universe. This one sentence was more precious than all the medals and praises which he received in later life. There was no alternative of that kiss in whole world... even in heavens.

A wave death stroke his mind but he resisted forcefully with his remaining energy and again lost in thoughts. "I can surrender all my achievements for that sincere spontanious kiss. My God for an instant gift me with a piece of life, I would return headlong to kiss the wet eyes of my beloved, then happily shall I die keeping my head in her lap. Then I will write a story in blood which will melt all the hatred of whole world; I will utter all the unutterable words which will finish the agony of earth; and then I will offer, my God, that story to you which will perish your indifference to man's sorrows. When your face will turn pale and sad, I will be overjoyed at the success of my story. My words will drain your eternal anger and tears from your eyes will wipe off the filth of world. My words will make you realize that there is huge difference between the solitude of man and Yours. It will move Your heart and I will see you breaking the high towers of hatred and revenge. I will tremble wih joy to listen the echo of your words in whole universe,

"Gone are the days of malice."

He saw the twilight of dying sun coming through the half-opened window and came out of bed, but his lifeless legs refused to share the burden of his body. He fell on the floor but that did not stop his desire to see an alive world. He started creeping towards that light, which was a symbol of life. To link with that light, he exerted all the energies of body. At last after tiring efforts he reached the window and opened his eyes completely to view the end of the day. Dusk had covered the whole brilliant sky, spreading the gravy shadows of night. Birds were returning to their nests; sun was lost in deep universe. This take-over of night made him to think about the odd process of this universe. Every creation had to face an end. Now when he was observing life at distance, an intentse desire to be again in that sea of life made him dejected. The bird flying alone, in the dim light of sun-set, added to his suffering of loneliness. At that sad moment he saw one gloomy face appearing swiftly towards him. Many years ago when he left his country in pursuit of dreams, only two eyes wept for him, and now after so many years he was going to die looking at those eyes. He recalled that cloudy evening when he said good-bye to her for ever.

At that moment of death he came to know that those weeping eyes had squeezed his soul which was still roaming over there. The rest of the life was soulless. All his ties with other bright faces were for his worth... worth of being a popular writer. But her sadness was from the core of her heart, she wept for him when rest of the world was laughing at him; when he was penniless unknown striving writer stumbling in the darkness of rejection. In the dazling light of fame he had forgetten her but now when he was again surounded by the darkness of death she was there, standing behind his pillow, softly moving her soft fingers in his rough and dry hair.

Once when he got serious head injury by the brutish beat of police, during the protest-procession against the government, it was she who made him alive by her tender care and prayers. She revived his will to live and unexpectedly he returned from the threshold of death. In those painful nights she begged for his life from God, and turned him into an alive man from a rag doll. It was she who put in him an enormous energy, enabling him to reach the peak of mountains. Now when he was standing at the peak some invisible force was dragging him forward, and he could see what next was... very dark and dreadful valley of death. He knew it very well that to fall in that dark valley was fateful, but once again he wanted to go back to that foot of mountain to have a look of those two wet-eyes, which were still waiting for him. Alas! at the peak he learned that everyone wants to be on the peak, without knowing that real happiness is in how it is scaled.

The stroke of pain took him back to that formidable state of forgetfulness. Even he forgot those kind eyes. He fell on the ground and felt the agony of death in his bones, soon that unavoidable state overpowered him. In fainted condition he saw a dream. He saw himself flying back fastly. He could feel the touch of soothing cool air which was lightening his burden... burden of popularity, of raverice, of pride, of heavy words, of jealousy and of praise. As he was flying back, his innocence was returning. He touched his body to feel the originality of his personality. He happily said good-bye to all those sentimental hypocrits, who seduced him towards the path of painful greatness... which gave him nothing except loneliness. Now for him the dearest thing was to kiss the beauty with eyes. He was overjoyed at the revival of his innocent existence. He felt himself free of torturing egotism. Soon he saw the lost face of his beloved. He ran towards her, stood at a distance, not knowing how to meet her. She opened her arms saying, "Your return is timely, I am very alone." After warm meeting she removed the dust from his face and combed his hair by her soft fingers. He fell in her lap, felt the divine pleasure of love and spoke in very exhausted voice: "I have discovered the truth of life, which is to love and perish... rest all is deception."

The fatigue of long journey and touch of his beloved made him sleepy. Sleep overpowered him and he went into eternal peace of eternal sleep.