It was evening, at just around sunset, when Rishab was circling his rooftop in endless loops—his arms folded, head bowed, forehead crunched and eyes aglow with anger. To a man watching from afar, he seemed to be no more than a usual someone who was loafing around, running around in circles, as if he had all the time in the world to spare. But Rishab himself didn’t feel so free. His insides were raging a war. Now and again, he would stop, raise his head a little, look around and scowl. Then, he would look down again and resume the circling and the raging.

 “This dust! My God! So much dust! That’s the culprit. Dust and more dust! Everywhere I look, there’s nothing but dust.” He ran his fingers over his face and felt the roughness of the grit that had settled over it. “How is a man to live in a place like this? How is a man to keep his wits while breathing in so much dust? From morning to night and night to morning! And here they are, lecturing their students not to smoke. What use is it? If the kid is breathing in this much dust day in and day out, he will die anyhow. What do you care! Let him smoke. At least it’ll kill him sooner—that way he won’t have to suffer long in this rotten place. Yes, that’ll be more humane. More freeing. To let him smoke and die sooner. Nip his sufferings right in the bud. Ha! That’s the way to go. Anything is better than this place. Anything!”

 As he was thinking this, he unconsciously reached into his back pocket and pulled out his wallet. Opening the wallet, he searched deep within its pockets with his fingers for a while and finally pulled out a cigarette and put it between his lips. He then reached into another pocket and pulled out a lighter and fired it. All of a sudden, as he took a deep drag, a sour expression came on his face, “Ha! I’m one to talk! To say let the kids smoke! How awful of me! I want to smoke myself and then I go finding these convenient excuses. That’s all they are. Excuses!

If you feel so sanctimonious, Rishab, why do you rave about the teachers? Why curse the dust? Quit right now if you can. Come on, you’ve only just had two puffs—now, right now, come on, stub it under your foot and quit it once and for all.”

But he didn’t throw away the cigarette. Instead, he puffed on it harder and breathed the smoke in so deep that for a second he felt his lungs burn. “Ha, here I go again as usual! It’s typical of me, isn’t it? A hypocrite I am. A god-damned, smoke-stinking hypo…!”

No sooner had he reached the end of the sentence, a change came over his face. The glint of anger had left his eyes and instead a look of relaxed wonder had replaced it. “No, maybe I’m not a hypocrite. Maybe I’m an example of what Freud calls ‘people with an unconscious death-wish’. Yeah, that must be it. It’s only logical. I loathe this place. I loathe these people and their stupid ideas. I sometimes even loathe my friends. So loathing everything around me for so long, doesn’t it follow that I’ve begun to loathe myself as well. Yes, it’s only logical. And now as a result I want to do away with myself. And what better way than to slowly torture myself to death? Ha!”

Smirking at his own cleverness, Rishab took in a long final drag until whatever was left of the cigarette fizzled out into ash and smoke. Usually, when he was done, he would throw the red cigarette-stub on the floor, stamp on it once or twice, then pick it up again and flick it off the building. But this time, he kept on holding the stub between his fingers and looked at it intently. “That’s exactly how all our lives are! This stick was all white and new only a minute ago. And now, look at it! Nothing but a damped, yellow, crushed piece of rubbish. How exactly like us all!” He looked around him to glance at the people who too were out on their rooftops. Then scowling at their dim, faraway figures, he thought to himself, “These people! They live and act as if they will be here forever. Look at that! Look at that woman combing her hair. It will fall soon enough, woman! And there, those boys! Look at them laugh! Look at them! So happy! Ha! But it’s only for a moment. And they too will die and their children will be crying over their useless corpses! Ha...ha...ha! The travesty of it. How awful this life is! And yet we keep on living. How cruel the Gods must be! And how stupid the lot of us! Ha!”

Then flicking the stub off the roof, as if all his anger rested on that stub, he made his way down the stairs to go to his room. As he was descending, he met Uncle Toyanath and his wife halfway down as they were climbing up to the rooftop. They were his flat neighbours. “How are you, Rishab?” asked the uncle, smiling. But being in no mood for such petty niceties, Rishab said, “Alright, uncle...” and hurried down the stairs. When he was gone, Toyanath’s wife turned to him in triumph and said, “See? You smell that? He’s been smoking up there again. Didn’t I tell you I saw him smoke? And you didn’t believe me. And now, do you see? How he has ruined himself! The empty head!” As she was saying this, they had reached the rooftop, and on seeing the two boys that were laughing on the roof of another building, they both smiled and then looked at the sunset thinking how beautiful life must be.