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called him Sultan and he had no answer. Funny
that this thought should come now.

It was lucky that he had chosen this walk. This
was the long one. And why not? It was a Sunday.
He had nothing else to do. He never had anything
else to do. Life was not what you made it; life was
what it made of you.

At twenty years old this was how far he had
come. This was the sum total of his wisdom.

He had been thinking of ending it all. Life was a
gruelling and depressing thing. It was full of lonely
people, never connecting, never coming together.
That had been what he had been thinking. But, no,
he had been mulling over a related something.
Something that had been haunting him for a week.

The water exploded rhythmically in his ears. A
related something?

There he was, walking along the lake-side.
Thinking. Thinking what?

Then he had it. He had been thinking of it
during his walk. It had caused him to mull over
ending it all, and he had imagined his parents'
reaction, the reactions of the people at work, his
friends and then some relatives. His father had
read it aloud. A rare honour for the morning. It

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