Ber Bahoti



would see

Dear Mukhtiari, I am well and your well-being is desired, or perhaps I am not well and yet your well-being is desired.

And she wrote even though she had no system, no ears, no night, no pen.

Or maybe there was a pen and paper, but no hands.

There were hands, but they were painted with henna.

Their hands were painted with henna, and outside in the courtyard, the drums of victory were playing. Young girls were making a fuss, and in the street, under the pavilion, the clatter of cats and rabbits was going on over the broken bones of the feast. Everyone was happy.

He wrote, "Everyone is happy here. The fort has been conquered and the troops have entered. All kinds of valuables, equipment and antiques are worth seeing, and there is a crowd of onlookers. Most have their fingers pressed against their teeth, but some have wrinkles on their foreheads."

Maybe it's less than they expected, but everyone is watching.

She was writing and everyone was watching her. She sat with her arms around her for hours, her head bowed, writing. Someone would pick up her heavy shawl and sit close to her and watch. The boy's aunt, the boy's maternal uncle, someone would pick his finger between his teeth, someone would

He would have wrinkles on his forehead. Everyone was watching. Everyone had been watching her for a long time, ever since she stopped playing. They watched her when she went to school, they watched her when she went to college, they watched her when she came home.

She would have been awake while reading or writing.

Who would let me sleep? Just stay awake and keep dozing. You never know when someone will come. But I would fall asleep.

Just like that, my eyes would close and someone would shake me and say, "Get up, wake up."

"But today is a holiday, let me sleep, I'm sleeping."

No, wake up, wash your face and hands and get ready.

I just want to sleep"

If it happens, you will stay asleep, wake up.

But why?"

Some people are coming to watch.

"K?"

How else do you?? "

Everyone would come and go to see her. She would keep track of each day. And then she would sit down to write. She would sit down to write, but what could she do about those scoundrels who wouldn't even let her write peacefully?

"What happened? Tell me, what happened?"

The boy's aunts, uncles, and cousins have all seen it and are now waiting for an answer.

There was no answer.

not yet"

All were seen!

can't

Yes, everyone was seen except their grandmother, she has a stroke so...

Did you spend enough?? Did you bring it??Shameless

There was no answer

has arrived

what good

۱۳

Who?? Btao na ! Everyone surrounded.

There is a scar on my forehead, my complexion is not fair, so I don't laugh, so there are no dimples on my cheeks.

fall

So why did you do it in front of their family?

Me? Not in front of my family.

So then?"

"The boy just saw me making out somewhere." She cried.

why are you crying"

I just remembered something.

"What?"

had fallen

"When??

let go

Let it go, he wrote. Why should I remember the days gone by? Why should I remember those friends who used to bombard me with various questions? When would they ask about my health?

Let your own form be transformed by your own fears and dreams.

He wrote. When the green sprouted in the summer, red birds would come out from under the snake umbrellas. We would be in search of them. A bird would talk on the mango tree's feet. We wouldWe would run and walk at the sound of the rain, and when we got far from our homes, we would go and swim in the open fields, and we would be very happy. That was our little age.

So, my little brother, my little brother, took us far away one day. In some garden, on some footpath, where a strange bird used to sing, but the soaked branch would not let us sit in its lap and came down with us, parting its branches. That evening, it brought mourning to our house. We had deep wounds, that's why I was crying.

She wrote. There was talk of crying. That night was a night of pain and suffering. The stitches were coming off. The stitches kept coming off for many days and I kept crying for many days but how long did it take for the wound to heal? The stitches stopped coming off. The bandage came off. When the bandage came off, I was happy. I kept laughing and playing all day but my mother started crying and just kept crying secretly, although now I have no one to turn to.

There was no pain.

I was not in any pain but my mother still kept crying. Crying secretly had become a habit for her and it had been like this for many years. She would look at me and then look at the scar left by the wound on my forehead. She would get worried and cry.

you didn't ask"

Why are you crying? Even though my brother has many such marks on his face.

Then he said, "What's wrong with that, you idiot? The problem is with you. You're a girl."

I was really right, if I wasn't stupid, why would people make fun of me? It so happened that when I applied for a school leaving certificate, where there were boxes for entering parentage and address, there was also a box for caste to fill in. You know, IWhat was written there?

But if

Girl! She laughed again and kept on laughing.

why are you laughing

I made a mistake and was caught. I still remember that old clerk, his eyes fixed on my face. He kept on scolding me for my mistake for a long time, then he said with great pomp, "Girls belong to men. Women have no place in society."

"It doesn't happen.

"I didn't hear it, but I didn't understand it," he said, "Uncle, it seems you don't like girls."

Yes, they look bad. He got angry.

Yours too?

Yes, even mine. He got angry and threw the pencil on the paper, stumbled between the tables, and went out the door, bent over. I saw on his bent back

The marks of her girls' burden were prominent. The worm was from somewhere.

She stopped talking and then got busy writing.

He wrote, "It was probably his punishment that soon my father himself also became bent in the back. Ever since people started coming to see me at our house, it's been so strange that a

There was a time when my father had a melancholy habit of closing windows and doors and drawing curtains. He was worried that no one would see me. He would cry out to my mother to explain to her.

When he went out, he would wrap himself up and take off his mask, but then there came a time when

My picture started circulating in the streets, he didn't mind anymore. All the boys used to ask for my picture.

So she was writing, she was being written. She walked, smiling and laughing, among the girls, among the songs of the Miramas, and among the flashing lights during those exhibition days. When people started coming to see me, when they came, the silence would be like an exam room, and when they left, the excitement of the day of the results would spread, but when would they come to see me now? He wrote, gradually it happened that when someone came, my mother would take them somewhere in the room and open the boxes and show them everything that she had collected little by little over the years.

The pieces of cloth and jewelry and who knows what else he had collected little by little gradually grew and eventually became more valuable than me. This is what he wrote.

This is what he wrote and this is what she was writing and this is what the visitors were looking at. They were looking at it and night had come.

Then, when night came, the singers suddenly stopped singing. An old Sayani woman suddenly came among them and ordered, "Go, girls, go somewhere else and play the song." The groom is coming to see the bride. The girls scattered, smiling and laughing.

done

The groom is coming to see the bride. She also heard this sound and bowed her head. She became even more engrossed in the ornaments and the cloths. She made it dark and closed her eyes. But she still did not stop writing.

What did she keep seeing? Even though she had neither pen, paper, nor medicine, she still kept writing.

Who was she writing to? Was there a face or were there eyes, what was it that she was addressing, and then, I don't know, at some point she fell asleep while writing. Her head fell and the heavy blanket that fell over her head turned over. She slept and slept but did not stop writing. She walked in the middle of her dream and continued writing. The night passed and the day passed. Then the day also passed. When evening came, her eyes opened. Her face and eyes and things and jewelry were nothing. There was nothing and her hair was scattered, which she gathered up. The noise and the noise were all dreams and

The thought occurred. Now I would tell everyone around me and fall asleep, but my body was getting weak from the dizziness. It felt like I had traveled for centuries and had been delayed in some work, which made me feel sad. And concerns were different...

When she got up, she stood in front of a mirror on the wall for a while, looking at herself. Her appearance had changed. Her hair was turning silver in places and the delicate skin under her face was becoming rough and turning into silhouettes. She walked with tired steps to a nearby room. In the room, someone was sitting on a chair by the writing table on one side, bending over papers and writing continuously. Just like she used to write. She saw and was surprised, then came closer.

She bowed down

What are you writing?

The girl who was sitting hunched over her papers, who looked just like her, looked up at the sudden sound, then panicked, folded the written paper in her fist, and stood up, hiding it behind her back.

"Nothing, nothing at all."

"There is something. Well, get up and get ready. Look how late it is."

The girl heard this and quickly went out to the corner of the room, throwing the crumpled paper somewhere under the table. As soon as the girl left, she bent down and picked up the folded paper from under the table, opened it, brought it close to the light and read it. It is the day of the exhibition. Today, some people are coming to see it again.

"When will you come?"

She read it not once but many times and kept wondering that it was her own handwriting, but when had she written it? The yellow paper and the faded words told a story from years ago, or maybe it wasn't. It wasn't her handwriting, it was written by the same girl who had just run out in a panic. But the boy's desk was empty, wasn't it?

There was no pen on it, no food, no water.

So he wrote, "He has neither a pen nor food nor medicine. But he still writes."

have learned