The contents of this book which are coloured with frenzy seem not only to be obscure and difficult by their expression and diction, their topics and discussion and their style but apparently they also seem to be disharmonious, undisciplined and wondrous and perhaps this is their prominent demerit as well as their hidden merit. With all this the book cannot be called a novel or a travel story, a short story or essay or tale telling. But it can be taken as the diary of a mad man who has been wandering from place to place, has been begging at different doors and the detailed account of a dervish who has been suffering the strokes of different hands and undergoing different ordeals. These are such mysterious and strange events which have been coming upon me inwardly and outwardly. The child like talks and mischief, the delights of the youths and their surging pleasures and the grumbling of the old self-absorbed persons, the happenings of the Fakirs and Dervishes, their wonders and their minuteness, and the wanderings in special vastness, countries, cities, streets, oceans, mountains and deserts.
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