And he poured the contents of the bottle into the bottom drawer and over the box, and applied to it a match. The bottle was filled with kerosene, and in a jiffy the box was covered with the flame. Yes; and so quickly, so neatly it was done, that I could not do aught to prevent it. The match was applied to what I thought at first was whiskey, and I was left in speechless amazement.
He would not even help me to save a few things from the fire. I conjured him in the name of Allah, but in vain. I clamoured and remonstrated, but to no purpose. And when I asked him why he had done this, he asked me in reply, ‘And why have you not done the same? Now, methinks I deserve my mujaddara . And not until you do likewise, will you deserve yours, O Shakib. Here are the lies, now turned to ashes, which brought me my bread and are still bringing you yours. Here are our instruments of deception, our poisoned sources of lucre. I am most happy now, O Shakib. And I shall endeavour to keep my blood in circulation by better, purer means.’
And he took me thereupon by the shoulders, looked into my face, then pushed me away, laughing the laugh of the hashish-smokers.
“Indeed, Im-Hanna was right. Khalid had become too odd, too queer to be sane.
Needless to say, I was not prone to follow his example at that time. Nor am I now. Mashallah!
Lacking the power and madness to set fire to the whole world, it were folly, indeed, to begin with one’s self. I believe I had as much right to exaggerate in peddling as I had in writing verse. My license to heighten the facts holds good in either case. And to some extent, everyone, a poet be he or a cobbler, enjoys such a license.
I told Khalid that the logical and most effective course to pursue, in view of his rigorous morality, would be to pour a gallon of kerosene over his