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A novel by Hakim Soroush whose narrator is counting what a single bullet cost him. Had he not been shot that day, had his leg not been opened up, he would have arrived by now at the place he deserves. Then again, perhaps luck was with him: he was only wounded, and did not meet what his companions met. When the shot came he did not move — he got himself behind a rock and waited for the day to pass and the dark to arrive, then crossed the border at night, crawling and limping. The next morning he met an old man from this village, a Turk, who took one look at him and, he thinks, felt for him. Text in Dari/Persian.

Author: حکیم سروش

Original title: فروپاشی