Art & Literature


Saba Dashtiyari

Translated By Dr Naimatullah Gichki

I always saw him in a gloomy mood swimming in the turbulent currents of the sea of his sorrow. At times one thought, he was searching something he had lost. It seemed as if the object he had lost had hidden itself somewhere in the sky to reach where would need moving a montian range. His condition was very frightening to me. At times the thought would throw me on a bed of piecing sharp thorns and at times I would get so disturbed I would forget my own self .

I Always asked myself,  “What is he? He Did not Talk much. If there was a big gethering of friends he would utter only some small broken words like, yes or no.  That too if one insisted. At Times I would feel like asking college studendts about him. But my conscience always stopped me. I would be afraid the friens would make fun and also because it would shattar his image in my mind.

Some people create beautiful pictures in their mind for their joy and will never like them to get dusty or look misty, because this would arrest the inner growth of his thoughts and when this growth is arrested, his inner self will be paralyzed. I had therefore shut my mount and had never asked anyone about him.

Time passed as usual. I use to go to the collage once in a while to chat with my friends, but he was never mentioned. We discussed other problems and issues. But to be honest, I wanted someone to talk about him. Anyway, that did not happen. Earlier, he could be seer every now and then, but for some time

now, I come to know he was not seen so often in the hostel. This increased my anxiety.

My  other friend did not have a good  opininioun about him. In the beginning I did not understand its reason. But (as a matter of fact) he was not so close to me, so I could not ask friends why  they were neglecting  him.

I just liked his good behavior. Actually he was and ugly and unclean person. But when he was deep in thought and looked upset, his ugliness and unpleasantness dissappared.

Sometimes I thought that the collage friends did not like him because of his ugliness and did not care about him? But this way not the case. There were many other ugly guys in our group. Whatever, I did not understand the reason. For some other reason our friends did not call him by his name. The truth is that it was he who had created the feeling and realization of national rights in the hearts of his friends. It was he who had taught them the methods of resistance and showed them the right path of national struggle. But in this time of injusticse and tyranny the general practice was to kill the very sense of awakening. One day the Army men came and took him away, to an unknown place.

Three years passed (only god Knows) in great trouble and difficulty. Who knows how much they have suffered and endured what hardships? Who Knows how many of them had died helplessly in torture camps? After three years in prison shahdad was, at last,free. But now he was not the same person. His mother had died in tears. His father’s back bent down and he was still unable to straighten himself up. Shahdad still talked of national rights. But earlier he was talking with his tongue and now he was talking in silence. It was because of silence that his friends called him insane and the teachers considered him to be imcomopetent. The sun was setting like a tired traveller and its yellow colour had given a beautiful look to the sky. Suddenly I saw Shahdad, who was gazing at the setting sun. I walked slowly towards him and put my hand on his shoulder. He turned his face towards me. “What are you looking at,” I asked “The outcome of my struggle”, was the answer.