Another Mosque Among the Stars

by Ahmed A. Khan

  SYNCHRONICITY

  Dawn

  Anil Kapadia, thirty-three, part time writer and full time computer consultant, sat eating his breakfast, then picked up his glass of water and poured it over his head. Shocked at his own action, he started laughing.

  This was the start of an interesting chain of causes and effects.

  The day had started with Anil opening his eyes to a beautiful Saturday morning in the midst of August. His mind still clouded with sleep, he tried to snuggle up to his wife and remembered that his wife had gone to stay with her parents after a fight with him last week. They had fought over something silly, so silly that he had already forgotten what the bone of contention was. Anil had a sneaking suspicion that in that fight, he had been the one who was more in the wrong. So the first emotion that he felt that morning was a twinge of guilt. But then the world intruded upon his senses.

  The window drapes had lighted up. He went to the window and pulled them back. The light fell on his young but slightly haggard face. He opened the window. Cool breeze played around his face while he, with his fingers, tried unsuccessfully to brush his unruly hair into some semblance of order.

  An ancient book had described dawn thus: By the first ray of rising sun, the world is stirred. Shining gold is sprinkled on smiling flowers. The fragrant air is filled with sweet melodies of singing birds.

  Well, this morning was not wholly as described in the ancient book. The fragrance of the air was a teeny bit diluted by the smell of garbage and car fumes. The sounds of moving cars and shouting juvenile delinquents sometimes overwhelmed the sweet melodies of singing birds. Yet it was a good enough morning all in all, except for the fact that his loneliness of the moment depressed him.

  His apartment was on the third floor of a high-rise building. His window overlooked a tree-lined street that was moderately busy in the day but almost totally deserted during the night. On his side of the street was a row of apartment buildings. On the other side of the street was a huge shopping plaza.

  He stood at the window for some time, watching the traffic on the street below. Then he turned and walked to the bathroom. It was while he was in the shower and warm water sprayed over every pore of his body that a strange kind of self-awareness hit him. He felt as if his soul had split in two: an observer and the observed. He watched himself taking the shower and thought: “What am I doing here?”

  The “here” in his thought didn’t stand for the shower, nor did it stand for his apartment. It had nothing to do with his present time and place as in “here and now”. The “here” in this particular thought stood for the world, the universe, his whole existence.

  Strangeness followed strangeness. He had a premonition, an expectation. Something significant was going to happen to him that day. But what? He had no clue whatsoever.

  The feeling of expectation was still there while he busied himself with the preparation of breakfast. He picked up two slices of bread. Popped them in the toaster. Opened the fridge and took out the packet of butter. The slices popped out of toaster, burned black. He threw the slices in trashcan. Picked up two more slices. Popped them in the toaster. Adjusted the toaster to the correct temperature. The slices popped out, well done this time. He put them in a plate. Applied butter. Carried the plate to the table. Flopped down on the chair. At last the ordeal was over and his breakfast was ready.

  He thought wistfully of his wife.

  At about the same time, a few miles away from Anil’s place, at the house of his in-laws, his wife Jasmine was thinking about him wistfully. I wonder how he is managing without me, she mused. The housework must have reduced the poor guy to jitters. It has now been nearly a week and he has not come to woo me back. The fight had been his mistake. He should apologise to me and make it up to me and may be, just may be, I will forgive him this time. But then, what was it that Erich Segal had written in “Love Story”? “Love means not having to sorry”, or something like that, wasn’t it?

  And furthermore, how could he come here? Her parents had moved to this new house just last week and Anil didn’t know the address. But then he did know the telephone number here. He could have at least called, the jerk.

  Flames

  Anil remembered that last night, before going to sleep, he had mentally made a list of things that he had to do the next day. But somehow, in the light of the day, he seemed to have forgotten everything that had been on his mind the night before. All he remembered was a dream. He had dreamt that he had gone to the house of his in-laws with the intention of making up with his wife. He had reached the house, parked his car in front of the house, gone up the driveway and pushed the bell. His wife had opened the door. “What took you so long?” she had said and moved into his arms. And it had felt so good. And he had woken up.

  He picked up a pen and a paper and tried to jot down the things he had to do that day. Nothing in the way of pending actions came to his mind. Instead, what did come to mind was a philosophical statement from Bhagvad Gita.

  “Only actions done in God bind not the soul of man.”

  And he felt the weight of the fetters on his soul and the weight oppressed him.

  He remembered the flame sermon of Buddha.

  “Everything, O people, is aflame. And how, O people, is everything aflame? I declare unto you that it is aflame with the fire of lust, with the fire of anger, with the fire of ignorance. It is aflame with the anxieties of birth, decay, death, grief, suffering, dejection and despair.

  “The eye is aflame, visible objects are aflame.

  “The ear is aflame, sounds are aflame.

  “The nose is aflame, odours are aflame.

  “The tongue is aflame, tastes are aflame.

  “The body is aflame, objects of contact are aflame.

  “The mind is aflame, thoughts are aflame.”

  How do you quench the flames? He thought. With water, of course. It all seemed so logical at that time. He simply picked up a glass of water from the dining table and poured it over his head.

  While his mind had been waxing philosophical, there had been a knock on the door, but he had been too absorbed in his thoughts to hear it. It was his next door neighbour, Tony Wilson. Tony and Anil were close to each other, so when he knocked and Anil didn’t open his door, he tried the handle and finding it unlocked, simply opened the door and walked in, right at the moment when Anil, his back to the door, was pouring water over his head. He watched this sight with eyes agog, then tiptoed out, slowly closing the door behind him.

  An extremely worried Tony returned to his apartment. Something was seriously wrong with Anil. The estrangement from his wife seemed to have unhinged him slightly. What should he do? What was his duty as Anil’s friend? He thought of their mutual friend, Dr. Ali. Yes, he was the right person to call for help. Tony picked up the telephone and dialled Ali’s number.

 

  Premonition

  Anil laughed at himself for his silly action, got up and changed his dress and sat down at his computer. First, he surfed the Net for latest news. There was a lot of it: murder, war, politics, promiscuity.

  Anil, who was feeling depressed already, felt even more depressed. He quickly got off the news page and opened up his email account. Immediately, he was hit with the dilemma he had been facing the previous day.

  At his place of work, by sheer accident he had uncovered the fact that his boss was dealing in drugs. His nature screamed at him to have this fact exposed to the world. He had a journalist friend and one email to this friend would be enough to open this can of worms. But he was afraid – afraid of losing his job, afraid even of his life. What if his boss had gangster connection and had him killed or beaten or maimed? And he hated himself for being afraid.

  He shut off his browser and opened up the word processor, wanting to work on his novel. This book he was writing was overtly idealistic. It spoke of morals, ethics, values. It even talked of God.

  No one is going to publish it, he thought. Why am I writing?


  He was about to shut off the computer in disgust when Bhagvad Gita once again came to his aid.

  “You have the right to works, not to their fruits. They are surely to be pitied who hanker after the fruit of every action. May failure or success be one to you. Even an iota of righteousness in your actions shall deliver you from cosmic fear. Plunge into action and leave the result to God. The wise who merge their intellect in Him are freed forever from the bondage of birth.”

  He picked up his writing where he had left it. He was still in the early chapters of his book. At that particular moment, he was at the point of describing the interior of the apartment of his hero. Now, how do I want the guy’s apartment to look like? Take from life. Why don’t I put down the description of my own apartment?

  He cast a look around and started to write.

  It was a two-bedroom apartment. The walls were white. The floor was covered with a blue carpet.

  In the master bedroom, the double bed lay snug against the wall opposite the window, covered with skyblue curtains and golden drapes. The window opened to the east and in the morning, sometimes when he got up before his wife, he would draw the curtains aside, and sunlight would fall directly on the bed, lighting up the rumpled comfortably slept-in sheets, and the painfully beautiful sight of his sleeping wife, her dark hair spread on her pillow in soft curls. The second bedroom awaited the coming of his progeny to be put to its proper use. Currently, the spare bedroom was used as a study and shelves full of books lined most of its walls.

  Anil stopped typing. The premonition, the expectancy of something significant in the air, returned with renewed vigour.

  Be aware, he commanded himself. Aware of self and surroundings. Aware of the texture of your clothes on your body. Aware of the feel of the patterns that the sunlight seeping through the windows created on the furniture and fixtures of the room. Aware of the indescribable taste of cool clear water as it passed through the lips, over the tongue and into the gullet. Aware of the smells all around. Aware of the dim sounds from the street below.

  Be aware. Aware of what you are. Aware of your position in the universe. Aware of the motivators of your actions. Aware of what was right and what was not.

  The telephone rang. Anil picked it up. It was his mother and she sounded worried.

  “Hi, Mom.”

  “Your father,” she sobbed.

  “What happened?” he almost shouted.

  “He is being operated today.”

  “Operated? What for?”

  “Appendicitis.”

  “What time is the operation?”

  “At two.”

  “I will be there, Mom. Don’t worry. Everything will be all right.”

  He put down the phone and sat there for quite a while, not moving, his heart palpitating with worry.

  “Mom. Dad.” He spoke softly, imagining they were right there in front him, not old as they were at present but young and lively as they had been when he was a child.

  Wish Mom and Dad had agreed to come and live with me, he thought. He had asked them, pleaded with them many a times, but every time they had refused. Every time the answer was the same.

  “This is the place we grew up. All our memories are here. There is a part of us in each nook and cranny of this house, each alley, each street here.”

  “Then I will come and live with you and find a job somewhere near you.” He had said.

  “No. No need to sacrifice your excellent job for us. You worry needlessly. We will be fine here. And of course you will be visiting us every now and then during the weekends.”

  He didn’t remember who had said the above words. Was it his father or his mother? It didn’t matter. They spoke with one tongue. Will our love for each other - my wife’s and mine - be as strong in our old age?

  My wife. I will call her right now. This illness of my father is the right pretext. Our quarrel will be forgotten. She will come to me. She loves my parents.

  He was about to pick up the receiver and dial the number of his in-laws when the door opened and Dr. Ali walked in.

 

  Detour

  Dr. Ali was a strange character. Highly intelligent, sharp witted, incisive, an expert neurologist. And he was an idealist of the first order. It was this idealism that had made Anil see a kindred soul in Dr. Ali. They had hit if off extremely well right from their first meeting which had taken place when Anil had gone to consult him about a minor neurological problem that he was having.

  Ali was one of those doctors, quite rare these days, who take their Hippocratic oath quite seriously. He was from a poor family. His parents suffered great hardships to give their son an opportunity to succeed in the world..

  Anil was surprised to see Ali.

  “Hey, Doc.” He smiled with genuine pleasure.

  There was no answering smile from Ali. Instead, he looked at Anil steadily.

  “What are you staring at me for?”

  “Are you feeling well, Anil?” There was extreme concern and worry in Ali’s voice.

  “Feeling well? Of course, I am feeling well. At least I was until you walked in.”

  “Sure?”

  “What is this?” Anil was alarmed.

  Ali ignored his question.

  “Won’t you ask me to sit and offer me something to eat?”

  “Do I have to ask you? My house is yours, dear friend, as the spider said to the fly.” Anil laughed. “But then, you can hardly find something decent to eat in this house right now, with Jasmine away.”

  Ali sat down on the sofa. “Speaking of Jasmine, haven’t you patched up your quarrel with her till now?”

  “N-no, not yet, but … Oh! By the way, you will have to excuse me for a moment. I have to make a phone call to my travel agent.”

  “Travel agent? What for?”

  “I am taking the noon flight to visit my parents.”

  “All of a sudden?”

  “Yeah! I Just got a call from Mom. Dad’s going to have his appendix removed.”

  “Oh!”

  Anil went to make his phone call. Ali sat there, thinking hard. First, the problem with his wife. And now this. His father’s surgery. A second big blow. Enough to unhinge a sensitive person.

  Ali got up abruptly and disconnected the phone. Anil looked at him with surprise.

  “Why’d you do that? I had not completed my travel arrangements.”

  “I cannot allow you to travel at this moment.”

  “What?”

  “I think you are about to have a nervous breakdown, and I want to take you to my hospital for a check up.”

  “A nervous breakdown? Nonsense. What gave you that idea?”

  “Tell you later, but you have to come with me.”

  “But I cannot. I have to take the noon flight. Dad’s operation is at two. I want to be there before the operation.”

  “Look. There is another flight out at about two. I will finish your check up in time for you to catch that flight. You will be there while the operation is going on. That is the best I can do.”

  "Damn you, okay I will come with you to your blasted hospital,” Anil shouted, raw anger in his voice.

  Martyrdom

  The day was bright. Overhead, the sky was clear. Traffic moved on the road at an even pace. Anil sat in Ali’s car, brooding, oblivious to the pleasant weather outside even as he subconsciously registered the first indications of the oncoming fall. Parts of the tree-lined sidewalks were covered by a crinkly carpet of gold and red leaves.

  As their car turned from the main road into a side street, they saw a procession going by. The people were all wearing black and they were carrying banners. Two words were prominent on the banners: “Hussain” and “Karbala”.

  Anil stopped brooding and looked at the procession with interest.

  “These are your people, aren’t they? Muslims?”

  “Yes,” Ali nodded.

  “What kind of procession is this?”

 
“It is a procession to mourn and commemorate the martyrdom of Hussain ibn Ali.”

  “And who is – or was – Hussain ibn Ali?”

  “He was the grandson of Mohammed, the Messenger of Allah. He was martyred fighting for the right against overwhelming odds in a place called Karbala in Iraq, fourteen centuries ago on the tenth of the Islamic month of Muharram. Today is that date. The Muslims commemorate this day every year to keep alive the ideals of Hussain that teach never to bow down before tyranny.”

  "Tell me more about Hussain." The writer in Anil was intrigued.

  "A tyrant by the name of Yazid ibn Muawiya had declared himself ruler of Muslims. He demanded allegiance from Hussain because allegiance from the grandson of the Prophet would legitimize all Yazid's oppressions and debauchery. Hussain refused. A fight ensued."

  "Oh, so it was a fight for power."

  "No. Hussain made sure that no unbiased historian could ever label the battle of Karbala as a fight for power or kingdom. He did not take any army with them. Instead, he took a group of about a hundred people, including his family and close companions. To them he declared that he was going to his death. It is better to die an honourable death, he said, than live under oppression. He said it was his fight and urged them not to accompany him but they refused to leave him."

  "So what happened?"

  "Well, in Karbala, besides the banks of the river Euphrates, Hussain and his companions faced Yazid's army. The least head count given in books for Yazid's army in Karbala is thirty thousand. These thirty thousand soldiers blocked Hussain and his family and friends, including small children, from the waters of Euphrates. For three days, people in Hussain's camp went thirsty. This was a tactic to pressurize Hussain in accepting Yazid's rule. Well, the tactic failed. A fight ensued. Hussain and his followers were martyred and members of his family, including women and children were made prisoners. But since then, this sacrifice has become a beacon of inspiration for free thinkers all over the world.

  "A poet, in a couplet, said it well: Hussain, you lost your life and your family, but you made it possible for us never to fear an oppressor."

  There was silence in the car until they reached the hospital.

  Hospital

  Their car stopped at the hospital. Anil followed Ali into the hospital. In the lobby, two old ladies, obviously patients, seemed to be having a reunion. They saw each other. Their eyes lit up. They moved towards each other, arms outstretched. They embraced, the wrinkles on their faces surrounding their smiles like illuminations found on the margins of old and antique books. Even in his troubled state, the writer in Anil couldn’t help noticing this scene and filing it for future use in his novel.

  Anil was put through a number of tests. There were neurological tests, physical tests, neurophysical tests and what-not. His reflexes were tested. His IQ was tested.

  Noon came and went.

  In between the tests, Anil shouted for Ali.

  “What’s it?” Ali asked.

  “I want to call Mom.”

  On the phone, he said: “Mom, I am afraid I cannot catch today’s flight.”

  “It’s okay, Baba” she replied. “In fact, there is no need for you to come. It is a minor operation. Nothing to worry about,” she consoled Anil but her voice betrayed her worry.

  “I’ll be there first thing tomorrow, Mom,” he said and put down the phone.

  After a battery of tests, it was time for lunch. During lunch, he asked Ali, “Now tell me what is this all about? Why all these tests?”

  “We felt that you had been under a great tension the past few days.”

  “We?”

  “Tony and I.”

  “Oh Tony! Where does he come into the story?”

  "He saw you doing something nonsensical.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like pouring a glass of water over your head.”

  “Oh my God!”

  After lunch there were a few more tests. After the completion of other tests, he was even subjected to a session of psychoanalysis. Somehow, he found the session with the psychoanalyst quite rewarding. The psychoanalyst asked several questions. Questions like:

  How was your childhood?

  Tell us about your friends.

  Do you love your wife?

  What is your goal in life? What do you want to get out of life?

  He gave one line responses to these questions but the backdrop that his mind supplied to each of his responses was detailed and complex, thus:

  Childhood

  My childhood? What do I remember about my childhood? Quite a lot, in fact. The reason probably is that the child I was is still a part of me.

  A sprawling, yellow old-fashioned house with tiled roofs was where I lived. The house sported a garden. There were numerous fruits and flowers in the garden. In the midst of the garden there was a small water pond around which lilies grew.

  Paddy fields - no, they didn’t belong to us - stretched for several acres in front of our house. To reach the fields, all you had to do was to cross the road. This road led to the railway station which was about two minutes walk from our house. Sitting in the house, we could hear the sounds of the coming and going trains. The railway tracks passed through the paddy fields. I enjoyed seeing the trains passing through the green fields.

  A part of my day was spent in school. The rest was spent in various things: doing my homework, playing, climbing trees, reading comic books and fairy tales, finding an isolated spot in the house and sitting there quietly, imagining myself to be - as my mood directed me - Tarzan, Robinson Crusoe, Robur the Conqueror, etc.

  In the evening, all of us, father, mother, grandfather, grandmother (ours was an extended family) would either take a walk or bring out chairs and sit in front of the house in the gathering coolness of the night, gossiping. It was pleasant.

  Summer nights in our house were extra special. Some of us - particularly my grandmother and myself - would sleep in the open, on wooden cots covered with crisp, clean sheets. It was extremely pleasant lying there in the coolness of the night, staring up at the star-studded sky and listening to the snores of the rest of the sleepers and the chirrupings of crickets, grasshoppers and other insects, while the fragrance of spring flowers filled my nostrils.

  During holidays, my afternoons were usually spent in grandfather’s room. I would lie beside him on his bed and he would tell me stories of great thinkers of the world - and I would lie there assimilating it all, occasionally asking him a question, otherwise remaining silent.

  After the story session, he would usually go to sleep and I would get up from his bed and go around prowling in his room, searching for any books of his that I had not read. I would invariably find one book or the other and start reading it at once, sitting in his armchair. These books were usually quite old ones, their bindings torn, their pages termite eaten, and a strange sort of smell rising up from them - a mysterious, magical smell.

  Have you ever noticed what books, particularly old books, smell of? They smell of sunny and cloudy days and dark and moonlit nights. They smell of battle-fields and gardens, of open skies and dusty attics, of deserts and mountains, of destinies and purpose. They smell of time.

  Friends

  I remember a time when late one night, Ali and I sat on a bench in the park near my house.

  We started talking about artificiality in our lives.

  “Self deception is our darling," I said. We do not have the guts to criticise ourselves. There is artificiality in our thinking, in our actions. How can we be free of this artificiality?”

  At last, Ali spoke: “If one can come out of the circle of self then one is free.”

  I thought over this statement. “Yes. But self is insidious. It gets into everything and pollutes purity.”

  “How?”

  “Take worship. What kind of worship of God do you think is more laudatory: worship that is done to get rewards from God, worship that is done in fear o
f punishment or worship that is done out of love of God?”

  “I get your drift. It brings to mind a saying of Ali ibn Abi Talib.”

  “Who is Ali ibn Abi Talib?”

  “He was the successor of our Prophet Muhammad.”

  “And what is the saying?”

  “Well, Ali had said that if one worships God in hope of heaven, this is the worship of businessmen; if one worships God in fear of hell, this is the worship of slaves; and if one worships God because He is worth worshipping, this is the worship of a free person.”

  “There you are. That is the freedom I am talking about - freedom from the circle of self.”

  Jasmine

  She is the daughter of a friend of my father.

  The first time I met her was when I had completed my under-graduate degree and was lazing around the house, feeling pretty bored while I waited for the summer holidays to end and my Masters program to begin. My father suggested I spend some days at the farmhouse of his friend. I accepted his suggestion.

  My first day at the farmhouse: I met a lively young lady who was introduced to me as Jasmine, the daughter of the house. She had been studying abroad and had just completed her under-grad degree as well.

  My second day at the farmhouse: I woke up in the morning, went to the bathroom and gave a blood curdling scream because someone had painted a huge moustache on my face.

  My third day there, I found missing from my things a book (a Thorne Smith novel) and an unfinished short story of mine. The next day, I found both the items. Along with the book was a note that said, “You seem to have good taste in your reading.” But the most surprising thing was my unfinished story. It was unfinished no longer. It had been completed, and completed in a brilliant way.

  I knew who was behind all this mischief. Jasmine, of course. What could I do but marry her?

  Significant Event?

  The psychoanalysis session over, Anil turned to Ali.

  “Can I leave now,” his tone was sarcastic, “or are you taking me to a mental institution?”

  Ali smiled. “You have to admit Tony was right in worrying about you. That’s what friends are for.”

  “With friends like you two…,” Anil left the expression incomplete, but he smiled.

  “I’ll drop you home. Just wait here for a while. I have to get rid of some paperwork at my office.” Ali left. Anil waited in the lobby. He did not have long to wait. Within minutes, he saw Ali rushing towards him.

  “Did you hear the news?”

  “What news?” Anil asked.

  “The flight that you were supposed to take today, it crashed and everyone on board died.”

  “Oh my God!”

  Ali just gave him a look. In that look was shock - shock at the thought of what might have happened to Anil if he had taken that flight. In that look was wonder - wonder at the chain of unlikely events that had saved Anil’s life.

  Was this the significant event in my life that I had premonition of? Anil wondered, but then, the feeling of something about to happen still persisted in him.

  They reached Anil’s house. Anil called Tony over. At first, Tony appeared sheepish over his role in the day’s events, but when Ali told him of the net result of the events, he became jubilant.

  “Be eternally grateful to me, my boy,” he said grandiosely. “I saved your life today.”

  “And just for that you deserve death punishment, Tony,” said Ali.

  “I see your point,” said Tony thoughtfully. Anil punched him in the arm, went into the kitchen and came out with lemonade and glasses. They sipped the lemonade, talked, and then Ali and Tony left, leaving Anil alone with his thoughts.

  Dusk

  Anil called his mother and breathed a sigh of relief to find that the operation had gone well and his father was doing fine.

  He then booted up his computer and got online. “You made it possible for us never to fear an oppressor.” Ali’s words echoed in his ears. He sent off an email to his journalist friend – told him about his boss and his drug trafficking, felt a weight being lifted from his soul..

  Dusk fell. Inevitably, Anil’s thoughts turned to Jasmine. And suddenly, he had had enough of his stubbornness. He picked up the phone and dialled the number of his in-laws. There was no response from the other side. Some problem with the line perhaps. He put down the receiver and stood there silently, wringing his hands. Then he made a decision.

  I am going out there to get Jasmine back, he said to himself and came out of the house. It was dusk and the world was lit with the mixed light of the setting sun and the street lamps.

  It was only when his car had left the driveway of the building and had moved on to the road that he realised he didn’t know where Jasmine’s parents lived.

  In anguish, he decided to turn back when he suddenly remembered his dream in which he had driven up to the new house of his in-laws and met Jasmine. He remembered it all vividly and on a wild impulse, he let his car retrace the dream path. From one road to another, from one landmark to another, his car moved, the way it had moved in his dream. A long time passed. Suddenly he saw a house in front of him - the same house that he had seen in the dream. He stopped the car, jumped out and walked towards the house, his whole being filled with a sense of wonder. He walked past the main gate. He walked past the beautiful garden. He walked past the portico. He climbed up the steps to the door. He rang the bell.

  And Jasmine opened the door.

  “What took you so long?” asked Jasmine.

  Anil spread his arms and Jasmine stepped forward and into the outstretched arms.

  “Let’s go home?” Anil asked. Jasmine nodded.

  Night

  “There are few things like a good, clean fuck to put life in its proper perspective,” someone had once written, and that night, Anil attested to the truth of this observation.

  Pretty soon, Anil and Jasmine lay sweaty and sated in each other’s arms. Jasmine slept, a soft smile playing on her lips.

  Anil wallowed for sometime in euphoria as a welcome relaxation spread through his limbs and made them pleasantly heavy. Just before he went to sleep, he thought over the events of the day and realized that there had been not one but many events of significance spread all over the day, including that event of a while ago – the act of copulation.

  Anil didn’t know it then, but that night another significant event had taken place. First steps had been taken towards creation of a new life in Jasmine’s womb.

  *

  THE END