"So you don't like mysteries! Isn't it?" Fotu-Babu was outrageous all of a sudden. "Then listen to it straightway you son-of-a-bitch. You are not my son. You are the product of a heinous act of your mother and what a whore she is!" Boltu felt his body going limp. Boltu was in his late teens when he discovered this rancorous truth of his life. By that time he had already been an antisocial, an outlaw and had been in bad company; but there was a subtle difference - he was a dreamer, he was a tender lover, he could sing and he had a true friend in Madhab. He wished to do something worthwhile; yet he lacked direction. Would Boltu keep drifting aimlessly? Or would he find his destination? Whether the destination would be worth its salt?