"Look, Naiyar, you must accept that one's own self is the most important thing for an individual." He sounded so adamant it looked as though that was all he cared to say that evening. "No, I can't accept that. Sometimes others who depend upon a person become even more important." "There goes the mother in you. Why else would you deny the biggest truth in life. For heavens sake, I'm talking about you—yourself, the woman inside you." "1 told you, everyone has their own opinion. Maybe what you say is right, and maybe what I say is right too." "Never'" he gave the judgement. "We can't both be right at the same time. Anyway, everybody accepts that. How can you reject it9 You've got to accept it. Absolutely' Right this minute'" "Look at you ." she let out a gentle laugh. "You can't push me into accepting anything. I'm entitled to my opinion." "Of course you are ... in all other matters, but not in this one though. This time you've got to go along with me." He sounded distinctly threatening. "Tell me, have you read a new book lately9" "Don't change the subject." "I don't have an answer for this sort of foolishness." "Foolishness?" he repeated, beginning to feel really irritated. "At least I think it is." "All right then," he sprang to his feet, coffee cup in hand, "I'm off, and I won't come back until you're ready to admit that this foolishness' is actually the truth." "Er-r-r, don't go away yet. What's the matter with you today?" She was truly astonished. "Today9 Oh, no. I've been wanting to tell you this for a long time. I only got the opportunity today. Well, goodbye'" "At least finish your coffee." "You finish it ... yours as well as mine. It will help clear your clogged brains—maybe. Goodbye'" She tried to stop him but he proved unyielding. He just wouldn't listen to her. I didn't see this coming!—she thought. After her husband Sajjad's death, Shuja was the only person she had come to like. She had met him at a poetry aymposium. Soon it was obvious to her that they both had a lot in common. They began to meet more often, mostly at her house in the evening. They exchanged views on literature, philosophy, politics, and they talked for long hours. But today . . . Shuja had started her thinking in a completely new direction and had then left, left in a huff, which only added a sense of urgency to her need to think seriously about his words. The next morning, as she was getting her son Munna ready for school and changing her daughter Gurya's clothes, she felt repeatedly jolted by the remark, "You are lying." Annual of Urdu Studies, #6 95