"May the fleas of a thousand camels lay upon your land" wailed the brown skinned rug weaver. Walking silently among the ruins of his small building and home, he shook his fist at the retreating figures of the enemy. Farouk of north Wales faded from his vision, but his face was etched in his memory. "they will pay for this the dogs, by all that is holy in the land, by the seas of my forefathers, and by the stars of the skys, I'll get them" And so, as it was explained by Rajesh, "revenge, is the language of the land, they all want it, they all seek it, they all live by it, you will never see people like this again, what they want is revenge and it is a cycle, a cycle that never ends" In the distance, a small land rover driven by a free lance writer from New England drove up to the old house. Rajesh invited him to sit and have coffee and a few cigerettes. "sit down, forget about it, have a cigeretee and coffee and forget about the thing about lung cancer too" They sat, they took in the view and smoked, and observed the serenity of the moment. The rug weaver sat with them and sipped his coffee slowly, "aw, come on Lajesh, the house was falling apart, he ran into a little peice of wood and it collapsed, he's coming back forget the fleas, we'll put it together again"
Lajesh looked at the night sky, and nodded his agreement, he was slowly realizing the impermance of all phenomena.