Burning River - Selected Novels of Mehtemin Woshur

Author: Ma Maqatim Wushur / Country: Mainland China
Publisher:
Publish Date: 2006-06-01
Features: I came to his house, but he happened to be out. His wife Nuliman warmly greeted me and said, "Please wait a moment. He will be back soon." Feeling weighed down with worries, I browsed through the books on the shelves. "Have you read all these books? Then, please take a look at this letter." Nuliman said, handing me a letter with floral borders.
"What kind of letter is this?" I was curious and opened the thick letter. I knew that the various adventures narrated in people's correspondence often have more emotional impact than the stories depicted in books. How many letters have been transformed into literary works by writers and presented to countless readers? How about this one? I read it carefully.
Kamal, hello! Your letter has arrived. "The sparrow" has not forgotten me, which made me happy. You wrote that you miss me and remember our university life. Yes, that was such a wonderful era. Even now, the image of the desk where the drawer bottom often clicked when you put books on it still appears before my eyes; the garden in front of the teaching building, the tall tree beside it; how we often picked leaves from the tree and played the game of "odd or even" for fortune-telling; the sidewalk in the grass behind the school; the old parallel bars beside the sports field; the window of our dormitory where you often stuck paper-cut flower designs. That era is gone forever. But the youthful, beautiful time will never be forgotten in our lives. However, I always want to erase this period from my memory. Because it plunges me into a whirlpool of pain. It is precious and unforgettable to me, but also a painful chapter of love. Do you know, back then, when you played the dutar and sang:
"Have you forgotten me, friend? Have you stopped the blood flowing in my heart? Why is there no echo? I long for you. Have the flowers of love withered?"
While I was silently in love with Refhat, this secret hidden in my heart, I never told you. I also don’t know what made you develop a bad impression of Refhat. Life is like this—sometimes, just by seeing a stranger, you may dislike them, even though they have no ill intentions toward you. But when you interact with them, you realize they are a good person. You once said Refhat was a beautiful "red chili," attractive at first glance, but his heart was hard. His arrogant demeanor and cold exterior might have led you to form that opinion. But his "chili" personality attracted me. I carefully observed every aspect of his character with my whole heart. If he is a "chili," then this "chili" is sweeter than honey to me.
However, our love did not start smoothly. His tall and sturdy figure, the black hair spilling over the brim of his hat, his arrogant indifference toward girls made me extremely painful. Perhaps he was colder to me than to other girls. Every time I met him, every time I saw his figure from afar, my heart would race. This racing heart made me fearful, sweet, and bewildered. I felt as if standing in the glow of fire, my face burning hot, yet too afraid to lift my head to look at him even once. I endured this torment for two semesters.
Ah, during those two semesters, how many wonderful fantasies had I, and how much pain did I suffer. The solitary bird, the lonely grass, the solitary moon—all made me imagine endlessly. Alas, even now, when I think of those days, I can’t help but feel heartbroken and shed tears. Kamal, do you know why I suddenly left the New Year’s party that time? Refhat danced so brilliantly at the party. He and a few girls were dancing joyfully. I waited for him, but he never invited me once. I couldn’t bear it anymore and ran outside, crying. The weather was very cold outside, everything covered in white snow, except for the lonely moon in the sky, looking at me sadly. I silently walked down the empty path in front of the tall buildings, getting farther and farther away. From somewhere, the sound of a accordion came, and from some window seam, laughter flew out, drifting intermittently in the cold night sky. On this joyful festival night, I looked at the lonely stars, wandering on the cold path.
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