Saladin Chamcha never imagined that his life would end like this—reduced to a shell of himself, washed up on the shores of an alien land. He had always prided himself on his success, his reputation in the world of advertising, and his ability to charm people with words. But none of that mattered now.
The storm had come without warning. One minute, he was aboard the plane with Gibreel, their fates intertwined, and the next, everything had shattered. The wreckage of the aircraft lay in a field, the smell of burning metal and crushed dreams still lingering in the air. The survivors were few, and Saladin had somehow found himself alone, the only one left of the wreckage.
He wandered through the desolate land, aimlessly, without purpose, his thoughts a haze. He had never felt this kind of isolation before—far from the busy streets of Bombay, from his life that once thrived on competition, wealth, and status.
There were voices, too—whispers in the wind, or perhaps in his mind. Strange sounds calling out to him, as if the world itself was speaking in a language he didn't understand. It was in these moments, when his world was turned upside down, that Saladin began to realize that his journey had only just begun.