Scent of a woman Saadat Hasan Manto
It was a day during the blustery season – a day actually like today. Outside the window, the leaves of the peepal tree stood doused in the downpour. A young lady from the slopes, a ghatan, was lying nestled into Randheer on the spring sleeping cushion of this exact same teak bed, which had now been moved away from the window a piece.
Past the window, the leaves washed by the downpour shuddered like hoops in the smooth murkiness of the evening, a lot of like the chills the young lady sticking to him sent flowing through his body.
Randheer had been perusing an English-language paper the entire day and had experienced each news thing as well as essentially every one of the promotions too. Toward evening he ventured out onto the gallery to delight himself a piece and detected the young lady under a tamarind tree protecting herself from the deluge. She presumably worked in the adjoining rope production line. He got his throat and hacked a couple free from times to draw her consideration and, sooner or later, he motioned to her to come up.
