The cold, blue sky with its morning gold and glory, was flooding the valley of Khanaspur. It could be seen as a sheet of ice and haze from the diningroom window where Dr. Haroon sat enjoying his breakfast. His devoted servant Ali, could be seen looming over the rosewood cadenza. Alert and wistful to serve his master at the least inclination of his gesture. Haroon was wistfully aware of his devoted companion, whom he never treated as a servant, but loved and respected as a friend. Right this moment, while attacking his omelet, his thoughts were reaching out to another friend of his, Dr. Latif, who was on a two week leave, visiting his parents in Karachi. Actually, he was feeling lonesome and restless this morning, rather exultant and delirious for some nameless reason, he could neither let go, nor fathom.

Latif was Haroon's childhood friend, their hometown Karachi, and their homeland Hindustan. Both were great friends and both had studied medicine, graduating with honors and hoping for a bright future. Haroon had started working at a hospital in Karachi, while Latif had opted to work in a more congenial climate as of Khanaspur. So, the two friends were separated for almost four years, until Latif had convinced Haroon to move to Khanaspur. The hot city of Karachi, teeming with industry and commerce was forgotten by these friends, and their friendship was strengthened in this haven of a valley perfumed with nature's bounties in beauty and flowers, both wild and intoxicating. And yet, Haroon could not help feeling a subtle change in his friend, a sense of mystery and alienation. And yet again, Latif was gone only a week, and he was not only missing him, but longing to fly to the parched, seething homeland of yonder memories. One recent epigram of Latif was swelling in his head like a bubble, his handsome features rather pale, and his dark eyes gleaming.

"Virtues are the victims of vices, and both the eternal foes of each other," Haroon gulped his tea. The boyish, mystical face of Latif with all its sincerity and agitation in his voice, etched in his mind like a throb of revelation. 'And yet, they are like the twins in one womb.

Together, inseparable! One soul, with ambivalent needs, announcing the dawn of duality in this nightmare of a world,'" he was smiling. This epigram was unspooling like a sanctimonious ocean of unwoven tapestry. 'Vice and virtue! These twins, living and pulsating. Pure and innocent! Knowing the dawn of evil, and beholding the sunset of good. Forever in conformity and eternally at rift, none vanquished and neither one victorious,'" the smile was fading from his eyes, his expression somber and brooding.

"Why am I thinking about Latif? I have a whole army of patients to heal and discipline? Why is this morning so cold and mysterious?" Haroon was savoring his breakfast as well as his ruminations. "True, that the world is on the verge of ruin and devastation. Or just Hindustan? The reek of blood and plunder, I can smell it? Even the scented valleys of Khanaspur are gathering this odor, breathing dissent and corruption, of war and frenzy. Hindustan! this festering wound of diverse faiths. Is it about to split open, and flood this earth with its own abscess of gall and blood? Hindus and Muslims striking each other with the bolts of hatred, malice, bigotry? Or, is it just the British, sowing the seeds of rivalry from the very mud in their soiled hearts? Ambition and hypocrisy, two dangerous cannons in the hands of sovereigns alien and hated! In name, isn't Hindustan already divided, India and Pakistan? Pakistan, the land pure and holy, yet to be born? Would not the holiness be forgotten and desecrated, if gained at the cost of millions foundering in the blood-bath of tyranny and madness?" his dark thoughts were impatient and struggling for liberation. "Why should I care for such chaos and confusion in this world, when life is young and brimming with the promise of joy and hope?" his usual sense of optimism was returning as he pushed his plate away. "I love these cool, sunny mornings, Ali. They make me shiver with the pulse of life and challenge," he smiled.

"These hills up here are awesome, Sir, I must admit," Ali hastened to pour another cup of tea for him.

"All splendid and glorious, Ali! This is paradise, paradise," Haroon laughed. His thick, red lips sucking the warmth of tea deliciously. "Do you think, Ali, these hills will be splashed with blood and bullets one of these days?" he asked capriciously.

"The war, if you mean by that, Sir, is imminent, I reckon," Ali confessed sadly. "Before the British leave, they will make sure that Hindus and Muslims cut each other's throats with the poisoned arrows of hatred, if not with swords," he murmured ominously.

"You are a poet and a mystic, Ali! If I had the time, I would be serving you, than to be served," Haroon eased himself up, sipping his tea thoughtfully. "We are all cutthroats, my poet, murderers and sycophants all. In the name of religion, Ali, we would not only kill the so-called infidels, but slit the throats of our own brethren. And remember, we would do it with gloating and with a sense of exultance that we are serving God and exalting the name of Allah. With the exception of a few, like me and Latif...us, loving and harmless ones? Always, stumbling on the path of healing, not hurting. And I must stumble on to the hospital, before I have to fetch excuses for running late," he brushed the crumbs off his gray suit before trooping out of the room.

The pine-valleys slumbering under the gold-dust of morning haze were not lending any peace to Haroon's thoughts, as he careened his jeep downhill into tortuous paths. The sense of exultance and loneliness inside him was somersaulting on some lands far and alien. His young heart was aching all of a sudden. Throbbing with an abrupt violence, as if it would break into a million fragments to explore peace inside the Heart of its own mysteries. He had not ever felt like this before, and this sensation was making him giddy. A sort of mystery and exhilaration, inside him, all around, above and beyond! The wise, wrinkled face of Ali was unveiling in his mind's sight like a continent familiar and peace-loving. He was exploring this face as he had not ever explored it before, not in this age and time, but in ages past where time could be eternally young, and utterly heedless. A kind, ascetic face with the wisest, kindest of hearts which needed no learning to perceive the maladies of the souls, and that was Ali. While he, Haroon, had to glean knowledge from medical books, only to know the anatomy of the superficial body and flesh. Ali could heal both hearts and souls with his innate wisdom alone, Haroon was thinking, while his own meager learning could bandage only the bruised frames of mankind, destined to suffer the ignominy of age and time.

Time, right this moment, was frozen in timelessness, as Haroon kept driving under some spell of inertia and oblivion. Though he was aware of the saffron fields meandering in and out of the lush vistas like the shuddering oasis. The pines and the cedars could be seen tall and motionless, edged with a profusion of wild flowers swooning under the gold warmth of the sun. He could smell the earth and the perfume of the valleys. The raw, naked fecundity of earth and cosmic holiness! All were holy, mute and awesome, inside the very fabric of his soul and psyche. Something vestal was unfolding its petals of innocence this morning, he could feel it seething in each atom of his silence and awareness. And yet his senses were greeting sadness, following some shadows profane and ephemeral. The molten gold of the sun was burning inside him, licking the flames of destiny, kindling the fire of ache and loneliness. He was suspended in a vortex of bliss and conflagration. So absorbed was he in the hush and absurdity of his own contemplations, that he didn't even notice one sharp turn, commanding his jeep to one screaming halt. A fleet of jeeps had materialized on this road like an army of ants.

"What is this? Where am I? Have the British decided to say farewell to this Paradise Lost?" Haroon cranked the gear to 'park', and abandoned himself to rage and impatience.

He had taken a wrong turn, the alien landscape before him was dripping with the cold threat of delay and danger. He could see the shadow of death and mourning inside the very heart of this valley. This was the valley of death, a secluded graveyard, manicured to emerald brilliance, and spruced with daisies and cosmos. The mourners were alighting from their jeeps, forlorn and graceful. Donned in black and white, they were floating toward the neat cemetery in a solemn procession. Reflected in the rearview mirror, Haroon could see a string of jeeps behind him, his despair rising as to being stalled till the funeral ceremonies were over. He wanted to jump out of his jeep and scream on the top of his lungs that he was a doctor and needed to tend his patients, not waste his time in being hemmed in by a horde of mourners. But this wild impulse of his was silenced by an astonishing, bewildering sense of peace and tranquillity. Some sort of swoon and sublimity were replacing his rage and impatience. His heart was gathering rills of sadness' again, singing and fluttering to catch the mysteries of nature unseen and unexplored. He was feeling light and giddy, pressed by some inner turmoil to rush out and breathe freshness, of life and death, of the living, dying cycles of hopes and doubts. His youth itself was constricting inside the hands of some powerful destiny, wrenching out the pain of uncertainty and loneliness. Like a reed, torn out of its muddied pool, he was hurled out of his stationary abode of conflicting thoughts and feelings. He was drifting toward the unknown, caught in a storm of fever and curiosity. What was goading him to follow the mourners, he neither knew, nor wished to know. His heart was pounding, and his former sense of exultation was his companion. The hills and the valleys were dancing in his head, and he was floating on the clouds of magic and mystery. The shadow of pain was with him too, looming and hovering above, not behind and yonder.

In a flash, all fever and madness were gone from him. Rapt and motionless, he was impaled alive on the very blades of grass upon which his feet had come to a sudden halt. Who had crucified him thus, only his heart could expound in a tremor of agony. A miracle sublime! A revelation supreme! The arrow of cupid had stung his heart to the most exquisite of agonies. The Lady in Black with white rose of a face, and sparkling eyes had chained him to the longings of the insane and accursed.

On to Chapter Two

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