Click here for nice stories main menu

main menu   |   standard categories   |   authors   |   new stories   |   search   |   links   |   settings   |   author tools

In Hour Of Death (standard:other, 1770 words)
Author: Muhammad Nasrullah KhanAdded: Oct 19 2001Views/Reads: 2103/1247Story 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)

Authors appreciate feedback!
Please write to the authors to tell them what you liked or didn't like about the story!
Muhammad Nasrullah Khan has 6 active stories on this site.
Profile for Muhammad Nasrullah Khan, incl. all stories

stories in "other"   |   all stories by "Muhammad Nasrullah Khan"  

Nice Stories @, support email: nice at nicestories dot com
Powered by StoryEngine v1.00 © 2000-2020 - Artware Internet Consultancy