Barren
by Saadat Hasan Manto

We met exactly two years ago today at Apollo Harbor. It was in the evening when the last rays of the sun had disappeared behind the ocean’s distant waves, which look like folds of thick cloth from the benches along the beach. On this side of the Gateway of India, I walked past the first bench where a man was getting his head massaged and sat down on the second. I looked out as far as I could see over the broad water. Far out where the sea and the sky dissolved into each other, big waves were slowly rising and looked like an enormous muddy carpet being rolled to shore.

Light shone from the streetlamps along the beach, and its glimmering reflection raked here and there in thick lines across the water. Beneath the stone wall in front of me, the masts of sailboats were swaying lightly with their sails lashed to them. The sounds of the waves and the voices of the beach crowd merged into a humming sound that disappeared into the evening air. Once in a while the horn of a passing car would sound loudly, as though someone in the midst of listening to a very interesting story had said, “Hmm.”

I enjoy smoking at times like these. I put my hand into my pocket and took out my pack of cigarettes, but I couldn’t find any matches—who knew where I had lost them. I was just about to put the pack back into my pocket when someone nearby said, “Please, here’s a match.”

I turned around. A young man was standing behind the bench. People in Bombay usually have a light complexion, but his face was pale to a frightening degree. “You’re very kind,” I thanked him.

He gave me the matches, and I thanked him again and invited him to sit down. “Please light your cigarette. I have to go,” he said.

Suddenly I realized he was lying. I could tell from his tone both that he was in no hurry and that he had nowhere to go. You may wonder how I could detect this from his tone alone, but that was exactly how it seemed. I said again, “What’s the hurry? Please sit down.” I extended my cigarette pack toward him. “Help yourself.”

He looked at the brand. “Thanks, but I smoke only my brand.”

Believe me or not, but again I could have sworn he was lying. His tone betrayed him as before, and so I took an interest in him. I resolved to get him to sit down and light a cigarette. I thought it wouldn’t be difficult at all because from his two sentences I could tell that he was fooling himself. He wanted to sit down and have a smoke, but at the same time something made him hesitate. I clearly sensed this conflict in his voice, and believe me when I say that his very hold on life seemed uncertain as well.

His face was incredibly skinny. His nose, eyes, and mouth were so fine that it seemed as though someone had drawn them in and then washed them out with water. At times his lips seemed to fill out, but then this clarity would fade like an ember disappearing in ashes. His other features also behaved this way: his eyes were like big drops of muddy water over which his thin eyelashes drooped, and his hair was the black of burnt paper; and you could make out the contour of his nose if you were nearby, but from a distance it flattened out. He slouched a little and this made him seem of average height, but when he would suddenly straighten his posture he proved much taller. His clothes were ratty but not dirty. His coat’s cuffs were worn and threadbare in places. The stitching of his collar was coming undone, and his shirt seemed as though it would not last one more washing. But even in these clothes, he was trying to carry himself with dignity. I say “trying” because when I looked at him again a wave of wretchedness swept over him, and it seemed he wanted to disappear from view.

I stood up, lit a cigarette and once again extended my pack toward him. “Please help yourself.”

I made it so that he couldn’t refuse. He took out a cigarette, put it in his mouth and lit it. He started smoking but suddenly realized his mistake. He took the cigarette from his mouth, and pretending to cough said, “Cavenders don’t suit me, their tobacco is so strong. They’re too harsh for my throat.”

“Which cigarettes do you like?” I asked him.

“I… I…” he stuttered. “Actually I don’t smoke that much. Doctor Arolkar has forbid them. But if I smoke, I smoke 555s because their tobacco isn’t that strong.”

Doctor Arolkar was known all over Bombay because he charged ten rupees per visit, and the cigarette brand he mentioned was also very expensive. In one breath he had uttered two lies, neither of which I believed, but I didn’t say anything. I’m telling you the truth when I say that I wanted to expose his deceit and make him feel ashamed so that he would beg for my forgiveness. But when I looked at him, I realized lying had become a part of his personality. Most people blush after they lie, but he didn’t. He believed everything he said and lied with such sincerity that he didn’t suffer even the smallest pinprick of conscience. Anyway, enough of this. If I go on in such detail, I’ll fill page after page and the story will get boring.

After a little polite banter, I brought the conversation around to what I wanted to talk about. I offered him another cigarette and started to praise the charming ocean scene. As I am a short story writer, I managed to describe the ocean, Apollo Harbor, and the crowds in such an interesting way that he didn’t complain about his throat even after smoking six cigarettes. Suddenly he asked my name. When I told him, he shot up from the bench and said, “You’re Manto?! I’ve read some of your stories. I didn’t know that you were Manto. I’m very happy to meet you. By God, very happy, indeed!”

I wanted to thank him, but he began again, “Yes, I remember very well. Recently I read a story of yours—what was it called? Anyway, it was about a girl who loves some guy, but this guy takes advantage of her and then disappears. Then there’s another guy who loves this girl too, the guy telling the story. When he finds out about the girl’s predicament, he goes to see her. He says, ‘Don’t think about what’s passed. Build upon the memory of love and forge ahead. Put to use the joy you were able to find.’ But actually I don’t remember that much about the story. Tell me, is it possible—no, it’s not about what’s possible—tell me, wasn’t that you? I’m sorry, I have no right to ask you that. But in your story, aren’t you the guy who meets her at the brothel but leaves her when she falls asleep exhausted in the dull moonlight?” He suddenly stopped. “I shouldn’t have asked you that. No one wants to talk about personal things.”

“I’ll tell you,” I answered. “But I feel awkward telling you everything just after we’ve met. What do you think?” His excitement, which had grown as he talked to me about my story, suddenly died.

“You’re exactly right,” he whispered. “And yet how do you know this isn’t our last meeting?”

“Well, it’s true that Bombay is a huge city, but I have the feeling that we’ll meet many times. Anyway, I’m unemployed—I mean I’m a story writer—and so you can find me right here at this time every night, unless of course I’m sick. A lot of girls come here, and so I come here to fall in love. Love isn’t a bad thing!”

“Love… love…” He wanted to say something but couldn’t bring himself to begin. He fell quiet like a burning rope spending its last coil.

I had brought up love only as a joke, but in fact the setting was so charming that it wouldn’t have been half bad to fall in love. At dusk when the streetlights flicker on and a cool breeze picks up, a romantic quality hangs in the air and instinctually, you want a woman close by.

Anyway, God only knows what story he was talking about. I don’t remember all my stories, especially the romances. In real life I haven’t gotten close to that many women, and if I write about them, it’s either to earn quick money or to indulge some fantasy. I never think much about these stories since they aren’t serious. But I have met a special kind of woman about whom I have written some stories aside from the romances. In any event, the story he mentioned must have been a cheap romance I wrote to fulfill some desire. But now I’ve started talking about my stories!

When he repeated the word “love,” I suddenly wanted to say something more about the subject. “Yes, our ancestors divided love into many types. But love, whether in Multan or on Siberia’s icy tundra, whether in the winter or the summer, whether among the rich or the poor, whether among the beautiful or the ugly, whether among the raffish or the refined, love is always just love. There’s no difference. Just as babies are always born in one and only one way, love too comes about in only one way. There’s no difference if you say that Mrs. Saidah went to the hospital to have her baby or Rajkumari went into the jungle, if you say that a bhangan stirs love in Ghulam Muhammad or a queen inspires love in Natwor Lal. Many babies are born prematurely and so are weak, and love too remains weak if it is rushed. Sometimes childbirth is very painful, and sometimes falling in love causes great pain. Just as a woman may miscarry, love can die before it’s had a chance to grow. Sometimes women are infertile, and from time to time you’ll also find men incapable of loving. That isn’t to say they don’t want to love. No, not at all. They want to, but they don’t know how to. Some women can’t have babies, and some men can’t inspire love because they lack something emotional. You can have miscarriages of love too.”

I was so excited by what I was saying that I forgot to check to see whether he was taking it in, and when I turned his way, he was looking out over the ocean’s empty distance and lost in thought. I stopped.

When a car’s horn honked loudly, he woke from his trance and absent-mindedly said, “Yes, you’re completely right!”

I wanted to challenge him, “I’m completely right? Whatever… tell me what I just said.” But I didn’t say anything and instead gave him time to break free from his weighty thoughts.

He remained absorbed in thought for a while. Then he said again, “What you said is completely right, but… well, let’s talk about something else.”

I really liked the line of thinking I’d chanced upon, and being too excited to stop I started up again. “Well, I was suggesting that some men don’t know how to love. I mean, they want to love but aren’t able to act on their desire. I think this is because of some psychological problem. What do you think?”

His face became pallid, as though he had just seen a ghost. This change was so sudden that I became worried for his health and asked, “Are you okay? You look sick.”

“No, not at all, ” he said, but his distress only grew. “I’m not sick at all. Why did you think that?”

“Anyone would say you’re sick, if they saw you right now. You’re turning terribly pale. I think you should go home. Come on, I’ll walk with you.”

“No, I’ll go alone, but I’m not sick. Sometimes my heart gives me some trouble—maybe it’s that. I’ll be fine in a minute, so please keep talking.”

I sat silently for a while, as it seemed he wasn’t in the right state of mind to absorb my words. But then he insisted, and I started up again. “I was asking what you think about men who can’t love. I can’t imagine what it must feel like to be them. I think about a certain type of woman, one obsessed with having a child, one who tearfully beseeches God for just one child, and who, when nothing comes from her pleading, tries to remedy her infertility with charms and spells. She takes ashes from the crematorium and stays up countless nights reciting mantras given to her by sadhus, all the while continuing to beg and present offerings to God. Then I imagine men who can’t love must feel about the same. They truly deserve our sympathy, and in fact I feel more sympathy for them than I do for the blind.”

Tears came to his eyes, and clearing his throat he stood up. He looked past me and said, “Wow, it’s gotten late—I had something important to do. Time has really flown by sitting here chatting.”

I got up too. He turned around and quickly grasped my hand, and then without looking in my direction he said, “Now I want to go.” Then he left.

We met again at Apollo Harbor. I don’t usually take walks, but this was still a month before my interest in Apollo Harbor died—that is, a month before I received a long, saccharine letter from an Agra poet who wrote in a bawdy manner about Apollo Harbor and the beautiful girls there, remarking how lucky I was to live in Bombay. Now whenever someone asks me to go there, I think of that letter and feel nauseated. But our second meeting was back when I still went in the evening to sit on the bench where masseurs were busy close by thumping sense back into their customers’ heads.

Twilight had turned to night. The October heat lingered, and yet there was a light breeze. People were out walking, carrying themselves like weary travelers, and behind me the curb was lined with parked cars. Almost all the benches were full. I sat down next to two garrulous men, a Gujarati and a Farsi, who had been sitting there for God knows how long. They were speaking Gujarati, but their accents were different, and the Farsi modulated between a thin and a rich voice so that when they started to talk fast, it sounded like a parrot and a myna were fighting.

I got sick of their endless prattling and got up. I turned to walk in the direction of the Taj Mahal Hotel, and suddenly I saw him walking in my direction. I didn’t know his name and so couldn’t call out to him, but when he saw me, he stared at me as if he had found what he was looking for.

There weren’t any empty benches, and so I said, “It’s been quite a while since we met. There aren’t any empty benches here, so let’s go sit in the restaurant over there.”

He made some desultory remarks, and we set off. After walking a little ways, we got to the restaurant and sat down in its big cane chairs. We ordered some tea, and I offered him a cigarette. Coincidentally, that very day I had gone to Dr. Arolkar who had told me to stop smoking, or if I couldn’t manage then to smoke good cigarettes like 555s. As per the doctor’s instructions, I had bought a pack just that evening. My friend looked carefully at it then looked at me as if he wanted to say something and yet said nothing.

I laughed. “Don’t think I bought these cigarettes just because of what you said. It’s quite a coincidence that today I went to see Dr. Arolkar for some chest pain I’ve been having. He told me to smoke these cigarettes, but just a few.”

I looked at him as I spoke and saw that my words seemed to upset him. I quickly reached into my pocket and took out the prescription Dr. Arolkar had written. I put it on the table and said, “I can’t read this, but it seems like Dr. Arolkar has prescribed every possible vitamin.”

He stole glances at the prescription on which Dr. Arolkar’s name and address were written alongside the date, and the restlessness that had earlier shown on his face immediately disappeared. He smiled and said, “Why is it that writers are often undernourished?”

“Because they don’t get enough to eat. They work a lot, but don’t get paid much.”

The tea came and we started to talk about different things.

Probably two and a half months had passed since our first meeting. His face had become even more pallid, and black circles had developed under his eyes. He seemed to be suffering from some chronic emotional problem because in the course of talking he would stop and unintentionally sigh, and if he tried to laugh, nothing came out.

Suddenly I asked, “Why are you sad?”

“Sad… sad…” he said, and a smile spread over his lips, the kind that the dying take pains to show when they want to prove they are unafraid of death. “I’m not sad. You must be sad.”

Then he drained his tea in one gulp and stood up. “Okay, then. I have to go. There’s something important I have to do.”

I was sure he didn’t have anything to do, but I didn’t stop him from going. I had no chance to find out his name, but at least I learned that he had serious emotional problems. He was more than sad—he seemed to be suffering from depression—and yet he didn’t want others to know about his sadness. He wanted to lead two lives: the one being that of outward reality and the other being in his head, and this second one consumed his every waking moment. That being said, he was unsuccessful in both lives, and I hadn’t figured out why.

I ran into him for the third time at Apollo Harbor, and this time I invited him home. We didn’t speak to each other on the way there, but that changed once we arrived. At first his face clouded with sadness, but then he chased this away and tried against his nature to impress me with lively conversation. This made me pity him even more: he was trying so hard to avoid reality, and yet at times this self-deception seemed to please him.

As we talked, he glanced at my table and saw a wooden picture frame there that held the photo of a young woman. He got up and approached it. “Do you mind if I look at this picture?” he asked.

“Certainly.”

He looked at the picture with a cursory glance and went back to sit in his chair. “She’s a very pretty girl. I take it she’s your…”

“No, that was a lot time ago. I liked her, even loved her. But, sad to say, she didn’t know, and I… I… no, well, her parents married her off. The picture is a souvenir of my first love that died before it really even began.”

“A souvenir of your love,” he repeated, passing his tongue over his dry lips. “But you must have had other affairs. I mean you must have experienced real love too.”

I was about to say that I was one of those men like him who couldn’t love. But then, who knows why, I stopped and without any reason told a lie, “Yes, I’ve had my share. You must have had a lot of lovers too.”

He turned completely silent, as silent as the ocean’s depths. He became lost in thought, and when his silence began to depress me, I said, “Hello, there! What’re you thinking about?”

“I… I… nothing. I was just thinking about something.”

“You were remembering something? Something from a dream? An old wound?”

“A wound… an old… wound… not any wound… I have only one, and it’s very deep, and very deadly. One is enough,” he said and then stood up to walk around the room. But as it was small and filled with chairs, a table, and a cot, there was no space and so he had to stop by the table. Now he looked very carefully at the picture and said, “They look so similar—yours and mine. But her face wasn’t so mischievous, and her eyes were large and knowing.” He sighed with disappointment and sat in a chair. “It’s impossible to understand death, especially when it happens to someone so young. There must be some power that opposes God, a power that’s very jealous and wants no one to be happy. Anyway.”

“No, no, as you were saying,” I encouraged him. “But, to be honest, I actually thought you’d never been in love.”

“Why? Just now you said I must have had many lovers,” he said and then looked questioningly at me. “If I’ve never been in love, why am I always sad? If I’ve never been in love, why I am like I am? Why don’t I take care of myself? Why do I feel like I’m melting away like a candle?”

These were rhetorical questions.

I said, “I was lying when I said I thought you’d had many lovers, but you too lied when you said you weren’t sad, that you weren’t sick. It’s not easy to know what others are feeling. There might be many other reasons for your sadness, but as long as you don’t tell me, how can I know? No doubt you’re getting weaker and weaker by the day, and obviously you’ve experienced something terrible, and… and… I feel sorry for you.”

“You feel sorry for me?” Tears welled in his eyes. Then he said, “I don’t need anyone’s sympathy. Sympathy can’t bring her back from the grave—the woman I loved. You haven’t loved. I’m sure you’ve never loved because you have no scars. Look over here,” he said, pointing at himself. “Every inch of my body is scarred by love. My existence is the wreck of that ship. How can I tell you anything? Why should I tell you when you won’t understand? If some man tells you his mother has died, you can’t feel what he must feel. My love—to you—to anyone else—will seem completely ordinary. No one can understand its effect on me. I was the one who loved, and I was the one that everything happened to.”

He fell silent. Something bitter must have caught in his throat because he repeatedly tried to swallow.

“Did she take advantage of your trust? Or did something else happen?”

“Take advantage of me? She wasn’t capable of taking advantage of anyone. For God’s sake, please don’t say that. She wasn’t a woman but an angel. I curse death, which couldn’t stand to see us happy! It swept her away under its wings forever. Aghh! This is too much for me! Why did you have to remind me of all this? Listen, I’ll tell you a little of the story. She was the daughter of a rich and powerful man. I had already wasted all of my inheritance by the time I met her. I had absolutely nothing and had left my hometown and gone to Lucknow. I’d had a car and so I knew how to drive, and so I decided to become a driver. My first job was with the Deputy Sahib, whose only child was this girl—” All of a sudden he stopped. After a while he emerged from his reverie and asked, “What was I saying?”

“You got a job at the Deputy Sahib’s house.”

“Yes, Zaharah was the Deputy Sahib’s only child, and I drove her to school every morning at nine o’clock. She kept purdah, and yet you can’t keep hidden from your driver for long, and I caught a glimpse of her on the very second day. She wasn’t just beautiful. I mean there was something special about her beauty. She was a very serious girl, and her hair’s center part gave her face a special kind of dignity. She… she… what should I say she was like? I don’t have the words to describe her.”

At great length he attempted to enumerate Zaharah’s virtues. He wanted to describe her in a way that would bring her to life, but he didn’t succeed, and it seemed like his mind was too full of thoughts. From time to time his face became lively, but then he would be overcome by sadness and start sighing again. He told his story very slowly and as though he found pleasure in its painful recitation.

It went like this. He fell completely in love with Zaharah. For several days he kept busy devising different stratagems to catch a glimpse of her, but when he thought about his love with any seriousness, he realized how impossible it was. How can a driver love his master’s daughter? When he thought about this bitter reality, he became very sad. But he gathered his courage and wrote a note to Zaharah. He still remembered its lines: Zaharah, I know quite well I’m your servant and that your father pays me thirty rupees a month. But I love you. What should I do? What shouldn’t I do? I need your advice. He slipped this note into one of her books. The next day as he took her to school his hands trembled as he drove, and the steering wheel kept slipping from his grip. Thank God he didn’t get in an accident! He felt strange all day, and while he drove her back from school in the evening, Zaharah ordered him to stop the car. He pulled over, and Zaharah spoke very seriously, “Look, Naim. Don’t do this again. I haven’t told my father about it—I mean the letter you slipped into my book. But if you do this again, I’ll be forced to say something. Okay? Let’s go. Start the car.”

He told himself he should quit his job and forget his love forever. But this was all in vain. A month passed without his solving his dilemma, and then he mustered the courage to write another note, which he stuck into one of Zaharah’s books just as before. He waited to see what would happen. He was sure he would be fired the next morning, but he wasn’t. As he was driving Zaharah home from school, she once again asked him to refrain from such behavior, “If you don’t care about your honor, then at least think about mine.” When she spoke in this stern way, Naim lost all hope. Again he decided to quit his job and leave Lucknow forever. At the end of the month, he sat down in his room to write his last letter, and in the weak light of his lantern, he wrote:

Zaharah, I’ve tried very hard to do as you wanted, but I can’t control my feelings. This is my last letter. I’m leaving Lucknow tomorrow evening, and so you won’t have to say anything to your father. Your silence will seal my fate. But don’t think that I won’t love you just because I live far away. Wherever I am, I will always love you. I’ll always remember driving you to school and back, driving slowly so that the ride would be smooth for you, as how else could I express my love?

He slipped this into one of Zaharah’s books. On the way to school she said nothing, and in the evening she said nothing as well. He lost all hope and went directly to his room. There he packed his few possessions and set them to the side, and in his lamp’s weak light sat down on the cot and fell into thinking about his hopeless love for Zaharah.

He was miserable. He understood his position. He knew he was a servant and had no right to love his master’s daughter. And yet he couldn’t understand why he shouldn’t love her—after all, he wasn’t trying to take advantage of her. Around midnight when he was still ruminating upon this, someone knocked at his door. His heart skipped a beat. Then he reasoned it must be the gardener. Someone had probably fallen ill at home, and he was coming to ask for help. But when he opened the door, it was Zaharah. Yes, Zaharah—without a shawl, she was standing there in the cold December night! He couldn’t find any words to say. For several minutes they stood there in funereal silence. At last Zaharah opened her lips and in a quavering voice said, “Naim, I’ve come. Now, tell me what you want. But before I enter your room, I want to ask a few questions.”

Naim remained silent.

“Do you really love me?” she asked.

Naim felt as though someone had just hit him. He blushed. “Zaharah, how can you ask me that question when answering it will only belittle my love? Can’t you tell I love you?”

Zaharah didn’t say anything. Then she asked her second question, “My father’s rich, but I’m worth nothing. Whatever they say is mine isn’t really mine but his. Would you love me even if I weren’t rich?”

Naim was a very emotional man, and this question too stung him deeply. “Zaharah, for God’s sake, please don’t ask me questions whose answers you can find in trashy romance novels.”

Zaharah entered his room, sat on his cot and said, “I’m yours and will always be yours.”

Zaharah kept her word. They left Lucknow for Delhi, got married, and found a small house. The day when the Deputy Sahib came looking for them, Naim was at work. The Deputy Sahib scolded Zaharah sharply, telling her she had destroyed his honor. He wanted her to leave Naim and forget everything that had happened, and he was even ready to pay Naim two or three thousand rupees. But his strategies didn’t work. Zaharah said she would never leave Naim. She told her father, “Dad, I’m very happy with Naim. You couldn’t find a better husband for me. We don’t want anything from you. Only if you could give us your blessings, we’d be very grateful.”

Zaharah’s father became incensed. He threatened to have Naim thrown in jail, but Zaharah asked, “Dad, what crime has Naim committed? If you want to know the truth, we’re both innocent. Anyway, we love each other and he’s my husband. This isn’t a crime, and I’m not a child.”

The Deputy Sahib was smart and quickly understood that if his daughter had consented to everything then he couldn’t bring any charges against Naim. He abandoned Zaharah once and for all. Then after a while, the Deputy Sahib tried to intimidate Naim through some people he knew and also tried to bribe him. But nothing worked.

The married couple was happy, even though Naim didn’t earn much money and Zaharah, who had never had to do anything for herself as a girl, had to wear cheap clothes and do housework. Zaharah was happy and thought of herself as having entered a new world, one in which Naim’s love revealed itself anew each day. She was truly very happy, and Naim was too. But one day, as is God’s will, Zaharah had severe chest pains and before Naim could do anything she died, and Naim’s world became shrouded in darkness forever.

It took him about four hours to get through his story, as he told it slowly and with evident relish. When he finished, the pallid hue to his face lifted, and his face glowed, as though someone had given him a blood transfusion. And yet his eyes were full of tears, and his throat was dry.

When he finished telling his story, he got up hurriedly as though he had somewhere to go. “It was really wrong of me to tell you this story. It was really wrong of me. Zaharah’s memory was not meant for anyone but me. But… but…” His voice quavered as he fought back tears, “I’m living, and she… she… ” He couldn’t continue and so quickly shook my hand and left.

I never saw Naim again. I went to Apollo Harbor many times to find him but was never successful. After six or seven months, I got a letter from him, which I’ll copy below.

Sahib!

You must remember the love story I recited at your house. It was completely false. All lies. There’s no Zaharah and no Naim. I’m real, but I’m not the Naim who loved Zaharah. You once said there are people who can’t love, and I’m one of those—someone who wasted his entire youth trying to love. Naim’s love for Zaharah was something I made up to amuse myself, just as Zaharah’s death was. I still don’t understand why I killed her in my story, although it probably has to do with how everything I touch ends up cursed.

I don’t know whether you believed my story. But I’ll tell you something strange. I thought—I mean while I told the story—I thought it was completely true! One hundred percent true! I felt I had loved Zaharah and she had truly died. You’ll be even more surprised to hear that as days passed, the story seemed more and more real, and Zaharah’s laughter began to echo in my ears. I started to feel her warm breath. Each part of the story came to life, and thus I… I dug my own grave.

Even though she was imaginary, Zaharah was more real than me. She died, and so I too should die. You will get this letter after my death. Goodbye. I’m sure I’ll meet Zaharah somewhere, but where?

I’ve written to you only because you’re a writer. If you can make a story out of this, you’re welcome to the seven or eight rupees. (You once told me you get seven to ten rupees for a story.) This is my gift to you. Well, good-bye.

Yours,
“Naim”

Naim made up Zaharah and then died. I’ve written this story and live on. This is my life’s boon.