I had separated from the caravan. When I woke up, the camels were nowhere to be seen. Only the steaming piles of their dung and the smoldering fires remained. The sun had risen in the desert sky – it was already midday. A few vultures sat at a distance, watching me with hungry eyes.
Åsa was only six years old but very different from his age mates. He preferred his own company over that of his friends’. A conflict raged like a storm within him. Outside, he was all sunshine and flowers and butterflies; and inside, he was as dark the heavy rain clouds. Åsa was also highly intelligent but depressed. The bright flashes of intelligence lit the heavy clouds of depression at frequent intervals.
It is a place of sorrow.
The old man sits on the couch. He is about 65 and Asian in origin. Deep lines of experience map his sun-beaten brown and haggard face. He has thick bushy grey hair – more white than grey and reaching his shoulders. His blue-grey eyes are clouded with age and there are confused tears behind thick pebbled glasses.