He is quite a strange creature, this nomad of mine. A creature of moods, of unbridled passions and impulses, unrestrained by the shackles that imprison, ties that bind. Without any home or hearth he -wanders on and on, along the fields, in a ceaseless pursuance of the horizon. Embarking upon the journey in search of some unknown, unspecified destination. Though his restlessness and fickleness agitate me to no end yet I feel a strange mixture of sympathy and respect for this prodigal son of our family. Sometimes, though scarcely, the nomad stops at a place for a brief interval, only to take a bit of rest, to rest his aching bones, before he sets out again in quest of that illusive truth that does not let him rest, meanwhile entertaining and amusing me -with the stories of all the unnatural incidents that he chanced upon naturally in the course of his journey. And even rarely, it might happen just once during his entire lifetime, he suddenly feels the need of a secure -warm fireplace on a chilly -wintry evening and he decides to settle down. But just -when it seems that he has finally adapted himself to a normal .life, one fine morning he -wakes up, and seeing all the others around him somehow senses that he disturbs the equilibrium of the place so very delicately poised in the middle. Before the day is off he sets out into the beige sky once again. And he tells me all this yet I do not understand him. Perhaps that is -why he confides in me.