No body knows my name is the tiltle of one of James Baldwin's celebrated books who knows the name of the old man sitting amidst ruins pondering over his hubble? we do not. It does not matter He is there like the North Pole. the Everest and the Alps but with one differehnce. The North pole, the everest and the Alps will be there when he is not there any more. Can we really say this? Dust thou art to dust returnth? was not spoken of the soul WE do not know whether the old man's soul will go marching on like John Brown's While his body lies mouldering in the grave or becomes ash drivern by the wind of is immersed in water, such specvulation is hazardous. A Soul's trip can take treacherous shoals of mataphysics where there is no "yes" or "No" "who am i?" asked Tagore of the rising sun in rthe first dawn of his life, he recieved no answer. "who am I?" he asked the setting sun in the last twilight of his life. He received no answer. We are no more on solid ground with dust which we can feel in our hands. scatter to the wind and wet with water to trun it into mud. For this much is sure, that in the end, when life's caseless labour grinds to a halt and man meets death, the brother of sleep, and man meets death, becomes dust. In the form of dust he lives. inanimate yet in contact with animate. He settles on files in endless government almirahs, on shelves, on faces and hands. He becomes ubiquitous all pervasive, sometimes sneaking even into hermatically sealed chambers.