|In Hour Of Death (standard:other, 1770 words)|
|Author: Muhammad Nasrullah Khan||Added: Oct 19 2001||Views/Reads: 2103/1247||Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)|
|Death of A writer.|
In Hour of Death by Muhammad Nasrullah Khan 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 Click here to read the rest of this story (79 more lines)
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