While he walked on the dim path next to the donkey carrying Zarin,Musa pondered his new fate. In the distance, the tall dark mountainsstood with their jagged tops, puncturing the blue-black sky. With afresh sadness, Musa reflected that on the Iranian side of the same highhillsthe town where he was born, got married, and ran into troublewith the secret policewas also waking to a new day. He figured that,for years to come, probably till he died, he would miss the place and itspeople as he would move farther away, in opposite direction, with moremountains and oceans in between, to separate himself from his home.As they climbed a knoll, Musa stopped to survey a cluster of mudhomes in a beehive-like village, surrounded by patches of brown wheatand barley fields, farther ahead. To his side, the donkey, with itshead down and the beads jingling, blinked its long eyelashes to keepthe unseen flies away. The tall plane trees, their tops touched by theglowing sun, stood solid like a wall. Somewhere in the still dawn, a manfrom an invisible minaret called the faithful to pray. A pair of hoopoesflew over their heads, heading east for the high hills. Musa watchedthem with a sudden longing. Excerpts from The Gravedigger.