Extending his right hand he reached out for the packet of cigarettes from the table by the side of his bed and extracting a cigarette from it held it between is lips.

Throwing away the packet his hand again groped for the match box. It was empty.

He flung the match box into the air.

It hit the ceiling and fell down on the floor.

He switched on the table lamp.

Four or five match boxes were lying on the side table.

He looked into them one by one.

They were all empty.

Throwing away the coverlet he got out of bed and turned on the room lamp.

It was two o'clock.

The floor was cold as ice.

It was only two. He had no idea of time. He thought morning was approaching.

What made him wake up before his time?

Once one is up it is difficult to sleep again.

He rummaged through every possible place in the room--the bookshelf, the wastepaper basket, his trousers and coat pocket. No matches.

He shook each and every book. Not a single matchstick.

He had turned the entire room topsy-turvy. The books were lying in disarray. And so were the clothes. His trunk stood with its lid open.

If someone dropped in at that time!

Two o'clock in the morning and the room in such a mess!

What would the visitor think? The cigarette between his lips shook.

Indeed, a lit cigarette and a beating heart were so akin to each other.

But where could he get matches at this unearthly hour?

And if he didn't?

Oh, hell!

He thought his heart would stop beating.

But what would make him come at this odd hour?

He didn't know what time it was.

And once awake he couldn't fall asleep again.

But the matches! Where could he get them at this hour?

Throwing a chaddar over his shoulders he came out of his room.

It was a cold December night, bleak and silent. And so dark.

For sometime he stood undecided in the middle of the road, not knowing in which direction to go.

Then he started walking , not caring to know where he was going.

A dark and silent night. He peered into the dark distance ahead of him without being able to see anything.

The dim light of the street lamps only accentuated the darkness and the silence of the night.

He stopped at a road-crossing.

The light here was brighter. The milk-white fluorescent tubes glared down at him. But the silence still held its sway. All the shops along the road were closed.

He walked towards a sweetmeat shop.

Maybe he could find a live coal in the oven. Or at least an ember on the verge of extinction. That would as well serve his purpose.

There was someone lying huddled up on the plinth of the sweetmeat shop. Looking like a bundle.

He had bent down to look into the oven when the bundle suddenly stirred. 'Who are you? What are you doing here?'

'I'm looking for a live charcoal.'

'Are you mad? The oven is dead.'

'So?'

'So what? Go back home.'

'Do you have matches?'

'You mean matches?'

'Yes, to light my cigarette.'

'Are you mad? Be gone. Don't disturb my sleep.'

'So you don't have matches?'

'Only the shop-owner has them. The oven will only get going when he comes. Now scuttle off.'

He regained the road.

The cigarette between his lips shook.

He resumed his walk.

The lamp-post. Another. Still another. They were left far behind, their dim light only accentuating the darkness of the night.

Suddenly he stopped walking. There was someone coming in his direction.

The man barred the way as he came up.

'Have you got matches?'

'Matches?'

'Yes. I want to light my cigarette.'

'I'm sorry. I'm immune from this accursed habit.'

'I thought…'

'What did you think?'

'Well, that you might have matches.'

'But I don't. I've told you I don't smoke. I have not cultivated this vice. I'm off to my home. You also go home.'

He move on. The cigarette dangling between his lips shook.

He walked wearily on, feeling utterly fagged out. He had even lost count of time.

A lamp-post shedding anemic light. And darkness again. Another lamp-post. Light. And darkness again.

The cigarette between his lips. He wearily dragged his feet.

The urge to smoke had become pronounced. He must fill his lungs with smoke. His body seemed to be disintegrating.

The cold was seeping though his clothes and the chaddar. He was feeling chilly.

Then he started shivering as he dragged his feet. He even lost sense of time and stopped taking notice of the lamp-post.

He suddenly stopped short.

He could see a danger signal ahead of him.

There was a bridge under repair. A lantern masked with red cloth was hanging from a wooden board right in the middle of the road as a warning signal.

He had just advanced to light his cigarette from the burning wick when a voice rang out: 'Who's there?'

He did not answer.

As if emerging through a sheet of darkness a policeman came bounding towards him.

'What were you up to?'

'Nothing.'

'Aren't you hearing me? What were you doing?'

'Have you a match box?'

'I'm asking you what you were doing and you ask for matches. Who are you?'

'I want to light my cigarette. If by any chance you have matches…'

'I know you were up to some mischief.'

'I was going to light my cigarette. From the flame of the lantern. If you have matches…'

'Who are you? Where do you live?'

'I…'

'I'm asking you: where do you live?'

'At Model Town.'

'So you want matches? And you live in Model Town. Where's Model Town?'

'Model Town?' He turned round and pointed in a direction where the place was supposed to be located. But he found he was surrounded by a thick mass of darkness through which he could see nothing.

'You'll have to come with me to the police station. You know Model Town is ten miles away from here? And you're looking for matches, aren't you? You'll get them in plenty at the police station.'

The policeman gripped him by his arm and walked him towards the police station. The police station was located at the end of the same road but the road seemed to be unending.

The policeman pushed him into one of the rooms of the police station.

There were several people sitting round a big desk.

They were all smoking.

Packets of cigarettes and boxes of matches lay scattered on the desk.

'Saheb, I found this man standing near the bridge. Says he lives in Model Town and has been going about in search of matches.'

'You, what are you up to?'

'With your permission may I use your match box? I want to light my cigarette.'

'Where do you live?'

'At Model Town. Please, may I use your match box?'

'Who are you?'

'A stranger here. May I use your match box?

'How long have you been living at Model Town?'

'For three months. May I…?'

'Matches! You son of a match box! Call yourself a stranger? Don't I know the likes of you? Go home. Or do you want me to clap you into the lock-up? Matches, indeed!'

When he came out of the police station he was feeling very tired.

He slowly started walking down the road. The road seemed to be unending. His nose had started running and his body seemed to be going to pieces.

Smoking is a vice.

Why didn't he ever try to give up smoking? And if he did not get it? Then?

He did not know what time it was. He was oblivious of the street lamps. Even oblivious of the road. And of his body too.

He lurched forward as if drunk.

The dawn began to break, making him stop for a moment.

He stopped to regain his breath and to compose himself.

After collecting himself he planted his foot forward. Then he saw a man walking unsteadily towards him.

The man stopped in front of him. There was a cigarette dangling from his lips.

'Do you have matches?'

'Matches?'

'Don't you have a box of matches?'

'That's what I myself am looking for.'

Taking no further notice of him the fellow moved on. The fellow was going in the same direction he had come from, and kept on his course.

Balraj Manra has published more than 30 short stories and is the editor of an Urdu literary journal, Shaoor. K Wahid is an academic/translator.