I felt like an animal and animals dont know sin do they

Man can never know the loneliness a woman knows. Man lies in the womans womb only to gather strength he nourishes himself from this fusion and then he rises and goes into the world into his work into battle into art. He is not lonely. He is busy. The memory of the swim in amniotic fluid gives him energy completion. Woman may be busy too but she feels empty. Sensuality for her is not only a wave of pleasure in which she is bathed and a charge of electric joy at contact with another. When man lies in her womb she is fulfilled each act of love a taking of man within her an act of birth and rebirth of child rearing and man bearing. Man lies in her womb and is reborn each time anew with a desire to act to be. But for woman the climax is not in the birth but in the moment man rests inside of her.

And eventually in that house where everyone even the fugitive hiding in the cellar from his faceless enemies finds his tongue cleaving dryly to the roof of his mouth where even the sons of the house have to go into the cornfield with the rickshaw boy to joke about whores and compare the length of their members and whisper furtively about dreams of being film directors Hanifs dream which horrifies his dream-invading mother who believes the cinema to be an extension of the brothel business where life has been transmuted into grotesquery by the irruption into it of history eventually in the murkiness of the underworld he cannot help himself he finds his eyes straying upwards up along delicate sandals and baggy pajamas and past loose kurta and above the dupatta the cloth of modesty until eyes meet eyes and then