Chapter 5 5

The kitchen is Aunt Sirona's activity space. I always see her holding two pieces of wine to his cell to absorb water.The pond with stone steps is no more than two copper pots away from the kitchen. Her cousin's nephew was barebacked all day, and no advice could enter his head.This rascal with no serious business to do, Sha Ran is the master of the land shrink.When he is happy, he jumps into the pond and sprays water into the sky while swimming.He stood on the stone steps and used tiles to float water; he folded a bamboo pole and sat and fished seriously; he climbed trees to pick black berries, and he milked more than he ate.

People say that the landowner who is two-thirds bald is the real owner of the pond.Before ten o'clock, he put some oil on his chest, back and back, took a bath, shrank his body suddenly into the water, soaked twice and hurried ashore, chanting the holy name of Goddess Durson, and walked back home through the bamboo forest.He is fighting a lawsuit and has his hands full.The pond is written in his land deed but has not yet been incorporated into the territory under the jurisdiction of the land. Sirona's restless nephew, ruler of woods, swamps, wastelands, shipwrecks, ruined temples, and the highest branches of the tamarind.

He rode a washerman's donkey that was grazing in the orchard, and the bamboo whip made it gallop.He proudly enjoys the joy of horse racing.No matter what the judge decides, he has nothing to do, so he rides on the washerman's donkey, and as soon as he rides away, the beast and its four legs will belong to him. Parents expect their children to read thousands of books, to be high-ranking officials and rich salaries in the future, and to honor their ancestors. Therefore, the teacher sent the student leader to pull him off the donkey who played truant, carried him through the bamboo forest, and sent him to the classroom.

His kingdom is in the marketplace, in the rivers, and in the wilderness.At this moment, he is surrounded by four walls, and his thoughts are glued to the pages of the book. I was once a kid too. The Emperor of Heaven also created rivers, fields, and the sky for me, but unfortunately I didn't have the opportunity to use them and lost the value of existence.In the vast world of children, there is no place for me. My nest was built in a corner of the old building, and I was not allowed to walk outside the court casually. The servants hummed local operas to make sauce buns, and smeared the bright red juice on the walls.

The marble floors were polished and polished, and the shutters were very elegant.Downstairs is a pond with stone steps, and there is a row of coconut trees against the wall.The fluffy old banyan tree has its thick roots deep into the ground on the east bank of the pond. In the morning, people from the neighbors come to take a bath.In the afternoon, on the water shining with the sun, You Ge's ducks caress their feathers with their calls. Time is still passing. Goshawks circled in the sky.The old cloth dealers knocked on copper pans and peddled along the street.Ganga water flows into the pond through the aqueduct.

Children are crowned kings in the wide world, and I was born a poor child.I can only play my games in the longing of my heart, in the distant vision of my eyes, in the sparkle of the pool water, in the cool rain embraced by the aerial roots of the trees, on the swaying branches of the coconut trees, and on the sun-bathing terrace in the distance . On the day Sita got the news of Rama, whose skin was as delicate as taro tender grass, the god monkey Ho Numan entered the forest of savior.My Knuman comes every year in the rainy season with moist light blue new clouds, making the sky dark. From its mouth of the black hole, there is a message of the distant place that I can't go to.

A mournful sky surrounded by tall buildings looked down at me blankly, with its chest rising and falling.The dark clouds in Bosnia and Herzegovina leaped over Zhishu's head like a wild lion with its mane shaking.He was shuddering with fright.The hurricane and the forest revive the pent-up vitality of children's lives.The prodigious boy released from the East Coast flew to befriend me. There was a rush of rain, and the stone steps sank into the water. It rained harder and harder at night.Lying in bed, I smell the damp woods that waft into the window.The courtyard was knee-deep in water.Thick streams of water gushed out from the scull mouth of the house, rolling down to meet the stagnant water on the ground.

In the morning, I ran to the south window, and saw that the ground knot was already a vast ocean, and the overflowing pool swept across the orchard, and the shaggy head of the wood apple tree stood alone on the water. The neighbors ran out noisily, catching fish with long towels and shawls. Until yesterday, Pond was as much a prisoner as Huo.In the morning and afternoon, the shades of trees of different shapes melted into the water surface, and Liu Yun used shadow writing brushes to make him draw a stroke on the water surface.The sunlight through the leaves of the grid is like using a golden spoon to scoop water into the pond.In a hurry, he looked up at the sky first.

Today, it is free, and will join the field to save oil and bring back four poems for the same visit to Kailin. A few of my elder brothers jumped on the political tents to shut down or return to the Ming Tuan team to test themselves around the lake, rowed from the alleys to the streets, and once played Cai Yi's words against A Longjuan and looked down on iron? My thoughts follow the pitching wooden boat. Evening came. The cloud shadow blends with the twilight, and blends with the black shadow of his eternal tree planting. The street lamps were on, and their crisp lights covered the road.The flames of the glass-shaded lamps in the house quivered with awe.The swaying coconut tree branches faintly seen in the thick darkness seem to be your hint.The gates of the houses on both sides of the alley were closed tightly, and the faint light leaking from one or two windows seemed to be the dull gaze of the eyes.

At some point, everything fell into a coma. In the middle of the night, everything is silent.Sa Luobu, the watchman in the veranda, yelled a few times every now and then. Every year the rain lifts my spirits and shakes my songs. The leaves of the Borneo tree are whispering, the branches and flowers of the palm tree are applauding, and the green bamboo is shaking gently.The petals of the horse chestnuts and beanjing trees were falling. In every household, the same children as I was when I was a child are applying special glue to the kite strings. Only they know what's on their minds.

① refers to the cloud. I am a woman in the inner courtyard of a boudoir. You won't know me, Mr. Sarat. I have read your latest novel, "The Withered Wreath".The heroine of your novel, Elukhmiao, died suddenly at the age of thirty-five.She had a fierce fight with her twenty-five-year-old rival, and I could see that you were kind enough to let her win. Now tell me about myself. I am still young, but Yunhua's torsion has already touched a person's heart. Knowing this situation, I was so excited that my voice trembled, forgetting that I was an ordinary girl.Bangladeshi girls like me have tens of thousands of hands, they are also beautiful and lovely, and have the magic spell of young age. I implore you to write a novel about an ordinary girl.plunged into great grief.If she has extraordinary emotions deposited in the depths of her heart, how should she express them?How many men can dig it out?Their eyes are dazzled by their appearance, but their conscience does not read the truth.We sell ourselves at the price of a spectacle. Let me explain why I say this. You can buy it assuming you fancy me, but Renneret caught one and he told me straight.He also stayed with a young woman named Su, who was young and skilled, and returned to his house because of the purchase price of Feigang. Later, he went to study in England. I occasionally hear from him. I used to think wildly: Rama, Rama, crowds of English girls in and out of public places, all of them are extraordinary, intelligent, and high-spirited. Reis? Sure enough, the last time he wrote to say that he went swimming with Sister Li.When Li Ji floated on the water like Mari Poshi, he couldn't help reciting the poems of the Bengali poets praising Uri Jushi.Then they sat side by side on the sand, facing the churning blue waves and the bright sun. And Ji said to him in a slow tone: "The day you came and the day you returned to China are like two treasures, let a round teardrop fill them!" How masterly she was in expressing her affections subtly! Nares also wrote in the letter: Even if she tells nonsense, so what the hell!It was so touching.Is the golden flower of C5 a real flower?But why not give people the enjoyment of beauty! You get it.The metaphorical meaning in his letter pierced my chest like an invisible steel needle and reminded me that I am an ordinary girl. I don't have enough capital to repay the noble family lover, alas, I am powerless to change the status quo, and I will be a debtor for life. Please, Monsieur Sarat, write a novel about ordinary girls!This unfortunate girl had to compete with six or seven women of outstanding ability and beauty, just as Arjuna and Avimanu fought against seven fierce knights alone on the battlefield. I know that bad luck is upon me, that I have lost.But please allow your heroine to win instead of me, which made me feel elated after reading it. Let your flower pen convey the good news of sandalwood-like labor and lushness! Name your heroine Malati, which is also my name.Don't worry about being discovered by readers, there are countless Malathi on the plains of Bengal, and they are all simple-hearted girls who can be trusted.They don't understand French or German, and only one knows how to feel wronged. How are you going to let her win? Your soul is noble, your strokes are sacred.Maybe you intend to lead her down the path of self-sacrifice, enduring unbearable suffering, like Sakundala did. Forgive me, Mr. Sarat, and let her come down and take my place.Your heroine can't get the unrealistic prayers she prayed to the God of Heaven in the darkness of the long night, but your heroine can. It is written that Nares has been in London for seven years, surrounded by promiscuous women, and failed exams time and time again. Then, you changed your pen and wrote that Malathi was the top performer in the Calcutta University teaching examination and obtained a master's degree.But if you finish here, the laurels of your fifth novel will be stained. Never mind how hard my situation is, don't shrink your imagination.You are as unstingy as the god of heaven, send Malati to Europe, write there a group of scholars, sages, heroes, poets, artists and monarchs surrounded her, found her not only brilliant but also gentle like astronomers discover planets . Not in the country of ignorance, but where there are saints, philanthropists, Englishmen, Germans, Frenchmen, reveal the mysteries of her world-conquering magic; Describing the rain of praise falling on her head, she passed through the crowd gracefully, like a sailboat gliding on the sea.People looked into her eyes and whispered that Indian rain clouds and sunshine blended in her eyes. (By the way, the sympathy of the Creator does melt in my eyes, though I must confess that I have not yet met a European man of insight.) Nares stood awkwardly in one corner of the room with the extraordinary ladies. What about in the future? My story ends here. My dreams are shattered, poor ordinary girl! Alas, the creativity of the Emperor of Heaven was wasted in vain! ① Famous Bengali novelist. Nice child: When I was nineteen and you were around twenty-five, you had already published two novels: Aunt Kangda and Panzhu's Strange Paralysis In addition, your novel "The Wheel of Time" is being serialized "Bloodstains" Your achievement has caused a sensation all over the country. I had a head-scratching melee at a literary seminar at the college where I was a bigger than a stockholder Chandra Chatterjee. My brother and I are just worshipers of historical dramas. After graduating from college, I got a job as an assistant to the county sheriff.Not long after, a raging anti-colonial patriotic movement broke out across the country, and I resolutely resigned. After that, I had the good fortune to become your best friend.During the days when we were very close, I never said a word to you.I even smirked to cover up your shortcomings, large and small, and turned them into your greatness. I know that you are the best at portraying influential people who don't hide their identity.You urged me again and again: "Pick up a pen and write a novel. On the writer's stage, you should have an honorable seat. It is your inferiority complex that makes you sit humiliatingly on the reader's bench." So, I hesitated to pick up the pen. My first d'M was set in our time.The protagonist is a political prisoner being hunted down in the Bondigada area.He lurked for seven months and risked his life one night to go home to visit his mother.His own uncle informed the police.He hid for a few days in the cottage of a fisherman's girl.His uncle provided reliable information that led to his falling into enemy hands.The fisherman's daughter gave false testimony and also Arrested and imprisoned.His uncle climbed to the position of deputy county magistrate. You read my novel, raved about it, and sent it yourself to the home of the editor, Sam Pu Sandel, for immediate publication in The Wheel of Time. Sure enough, the novel started serialization in the second month. Like a fire spreading rapidly from a dry reed pond, I soon became famous in the literary world. In a review article in "Piccolo" magazine, it was written: "In front of this new star in the literary world, the famous novelist Asu Mister was eclipsed. " You read it with a happy smile. Da Yingsi's article published in the "Panchagana" magazine said: "Bangla Wenyuan finally gave birth to a real work handed down from generation to generation." You read this article without laughing. After that, the thorns of fame grew between you and me. At this moment, please listen to my words, my reputation was born in the thin soil of "modern madness", the roots are so deep that "there are no fruits, only the leaves are dense, and the reason is that I don't know how to be modest." Your protagonist is Don Quixote of Bengali, whose eccentricity has been passed down through generations to madmen of all colors. The hero of my novel, Gonjalar, is like a firecracker that goes out in the air. Can only confuse the eyes of fools. _ I know how noble you are.How could I sell your friendship to steal the capital of false honor. Open the paper bag and see, inside are the ashes of my work. My work will be a pinch of dust tomorrow, why not burn it today! ①Banjin? Chandra? Chatterjee (! 838-1894): Founder of modern Bengali literature. There is a two-story building on the side of the alley where the milk seller Jinu lives. The windows on the first floor are nailed with iron bars, and the plaster on the walls wet with oil is mottled, and there are brown spots everywhere.On the curtain made of American cloth, there are pictures of the God of Wealth.In addition to me, there is another creature renting a room on the first floor—Zhexie. The difference between it and me is that it does not lack food. I am the youngest clerk in the Chamber of Commerce, earning twenty-five rupees a month.Tutoring children of the "Dart" caste with their homework after get off work for a small meal.Then head to Siarda Station to while away the dusk and save the cost of lighting the lights.Listening to the sound of singing wheels, sirens, the noise of passengers, and the shouts of coolies... It was not until half past ten before returning to the dark and bleak residence. My aunt's village was on the banks of the Durres Valley, and her niece married me, the ill-fated man.The auspicious date for marriage was being selected, and my crime of "committing chaos" was revealed, so I had to flee in a hurry.The bride came out of "disaster" and so did I. The bride failed to enter the bridal chamber, but she came and went in and out of my heart every day.She is wrapped in a Dhaka silk sari, and between her eyebrows is a huge auspicious shop. Recently, it has been rainy, and the tram fare has risen again, but the salary has been deducted.In the corner of the alley, durian and mango skin cores, fish scales, kitten corpses, furnace ashes... are piled up and rotting. The status quo of the porous old life I use is like a salary that is deducted seven times and eight times.The only adornments to the dreary atmosphere of the office are the wisecracks of Kubikant, the optimist who worships the protector god Vishnan. The dark shadow of the evil rain sneaked into the damp small room, like a fallen beast, unconscious and motionless.Day and night, I felt the half-dead world of H tied together tightly. Mr. Jing Da, who lives in the gap, has carefully combed wavy black hair and a pair of big eyes. He has a bold personality and loves to play the flute since he was a child.Cen Min's midnight, the gray dawn, the midnight where light and shadow intersect, in the foul air of the alley, "His flute often lingers. One evening, he played the gloomy "Xingdu" and "Baruya" The melody, the evening sky is filled with eternal sorrow. In an instant In the meantime, the alleys are as unreal as a mournful drunk talking.I suddenly felt that I, the poor scribe Haripat, was indistinguishable from the Mughal emperor Agbar. The broken umbrella and canopy flew to the heaven together with the mournful sound of the flute. The place where the sound of the flute sounds particularly real and moving is the place where the River Durres Valley flows.In the endless dusk, in the dark and brown shade by the river, in the vegetable garden, she was waiting, wrapped in a long silk sari, with a huge auspicious mole between her eyebrows.