UNBALANCED LOVE
BY ANWAR MUHAMMED
The flight from Japan was announced two hours late. In the lobby of the Tian Qiao Hotel, Beijingers interpreting for Japanese guests paced with their coats over their arms. Gulzar checked her watch.
“Are we going to spend another two hours here?”
“Should I find somewhere to play?” Ablekim asked, half-joking.
“Thank you save the fun for when Muyassar arrives.”
Ablekim smiled, thinking of the girl whose photo he’d received: lively, bright-eyed, charming. In two hours, he imagined she would appear just as she looked in the picture.
Gulzar and Ablekim had studied together for five years at Minzu University. After graduation, Ablekim joined a publishing house in Beijing; Gulzar stayed on for her master’s degree. She was energetic, people-first, the kind of friend who rooted for others.
A year earlier, Gulzar had met Mr. Heng Tian, a Japanese scholar. “We have a young woman at home,” he had told her. “She’s lived with us five years, a PhD student in Japanese folk literature.” Gulzar wanted to know her at once. On returning to Japan, Mr. Heng Tian wrote to Muyassar, and soon he connected Muyassar and Gulzar by phone. The two women got along easily. From Japan, Muyassar called often; on New Year’s Eve they exchanged postcards and letters. Gulzar cherished a card from Muyassar with Mt. Fuji on the front and warm wishes inside. Finishing her master’s, Gulzar dreamed sweetly of going to Japan for a PhD.
When Mr. Heng Tian came to Beijing again, he brought greetings and thoughtful gifts for Gulzar. Grateful, Gulzar helped him daily during his
two-month visit to the Institute of Turkic Languages at Minzu university, and picked up bits of Japanese. Mr. Heng Tian, for his part, had studied Uyghur with Muyassar Chen and could convey himself well.
One day, he spoke of Muyassar’s life. Gulzar later discussed it warmly with Muyassar over the phone. While studying in Shanghai, Muyassar had dated a young man from Urumqi who later proved unfaithful. After graduation she returned to Urumqi, unsettled about staying. With help from Mr. Heng Tian whom she had met in Shanghai and again in Urumqi she went to Japan, where she had now studied for five years.
Her family pressed her: “Find a suitor, child an eligible match.” Letters arrived from Urumqi with photos and personal summaries: years spent studying abroad, salaries in local bureaus, private companies, even boasts of having 50–60 thousand dollars saved for a wedding, promises they could marry and live comfortably together in Japan. Muyassar did not trust such letters she doubted their honesty. “They speak as if I were a business deal,” she told Gulzar, “As if I were a Japanese lender. In Japan, wealth and companies can feel like temples to some. But we cannot imitate this. We must live with dignity and self-respect. What is uniquely ours is most precious. Some in Urumqi don’t understand; everything is measured in money. I fear that. They seek marriage for purposes, not love. I refused them all.”
Understanding Muyassar’s heart, Mr. Heng Tian explained her criteria to Gulzar. Like many women, Muyassar placed love first, with good conditions as secondary. Gulzar once asked, “Isn’t it hard to find someone who meets your standards? Why haven’t you ever fallen for a Japanese man?”
“Do you know how deep the differences are between the Japanese and us?” Muyassar answered firmly. “We share a little, but much is different. Many here don’t truly believe in Buddhism; they revere ancestors and the presentday samurai ideals. We are Muslims; we have our own faith, morality, and way of life. I study Japanese culture I likely know these people better than any other Uyghur. I feel the differences as wide as heaven and earth. In this, I’m unsentimental scientific.”
Gulzar wanted to say, “Love is a country, not a nation.” Muyassar continued: “People in romance often believe what’s hidden or idealized. That belongs to films and novels and sometimes in life but true love is rare. Too often it’s tied to interests. Perhaps living in Japan has made me think too much about money and motives.”
“No,” Gulzar replied, “it’s the same everywhere now. People are servants to interests. Many admire Americans and Japanese because both became powerful by harnessing interests one in the West, the other in the East. People respect, even idolize, that strength.”
The two graduate students talked long, then stopped calling Muyassar, worried about the cost and her time. Reflecting on the conversation, Gulzar felt that some of what had been said about Muyassar was unjust. She was touched by how deeply Mr. Heng Tian cared almost like her parents.
Mr. Heng Tian had one child, an elderly daughter who taught music in Tokyo, living there with her husband. He himself lived with his elder brother in a spacious two-story house in Yokohama. After Muyassar came to Japan, the mother of the household cared for her tenderly, came to love her
cheerful nature, and eventually adopted her as a daughter. From then on, neither Mr. Heng Tian nor Mr. Kemper felt alone. They gave her the love they had hoped to give their own child, and she received the affection they had not found before. In this great economic nation, where many struggle to get by, such warmth was rare and Gulzar admired Muyassar’s good fortune.
Hearing all this, Ablekim came to mind. A devoted reader and poet, and handsome, he seemed a good match. In Beijing, Ablekim and Gulzar had grown close as friends, yet both knew romance wasn’t possible, their temperaments didn’t fit.
Before returning to Japan, Mr. Heng Tian introduced Ablekim to Muyassar through Gulzar. “If you like,” he suggested, “write her send your new poetry collection. Give it a try.” Ablekim agreed with a quick smile. As if seeing a beautiful flower from afar, he gathered his thoughts and wrote two pages of greetings. He praised the young woman sincerely, briefly introduced himself, and poured his life views and aspirations into heartfelt lines meant to touch her. He signed the front page of his poetry book, “Dedicated to the Honorable Muyassar,” slipped the letter into an envelope, and hesitated would a photo be presumptuous? With gentle humor, he chose a well-shot photograph and tucked it inside. With the spring wind at his back, he biked away, mind blooming with a thousand imaginings. Gulzar brought him to Mr. Heng Tian’s study. Ablekim felt as nervous as a man meeting a fiancée before meeting the
daughter but kept his calm. Mr. Heng Tian greeted him warmly. After a few exchanges, Gulzar praised Ablekim: a principled classmate, a poet, already published, a strong pen. Mr. Heng Tian listened, smiling. Ablekim handed over the book and letter. Mr. Heng Tian glanced at Ablekim’s face, admired the book, weighed the letter in his hand for a moment, then slipped it into the book and placed both carefully in his bag.
A month later, Ablekim received Muyassar’s first letter and was delighted. She wrote:
Hello first, thank you from the heart for your writing. I was happy to hear from you. I received your letter and book from Mr. Heng Tian it was an unexpected surprise. I’m glad Gulzar and all of you are well. I am healthy and doing fine. I read your book through the night. I’ve loved literature since childhood, perhaps not writing as much as reading and thinking about it. I’d like to see all your poems.
You may have heard about me from Gulzar but let me introduce myself. My name is Muyassar. We live in Hongsan, Urumqi. After two years of preparatory study at Central Minzu University, I graduated from East China Normal University in Shanghai in 1998, majoring in Russian. I came to Japan in January almost five years ago now and I’m still living as a student. I’m a PhD candidate at the Institute of Japanese Folk Culture in Dasho, Nai Chuan Prefecture. My field is folklore Japanese customs. It’s endlessly interesting, and I love it.
Gulzar is a dear and respected friend. She flatters me but doesn’t take it too seriously; she’s kind because she is my friend. I’ve heard good things
about you from both Mr. Heng Tian and Gulzar. I read your letter and your book. You’ve achieved much at a young age. Without courage and determination, nothing is possible. I imagine you’ve overcome many difficulties, and I respect your spirit. I’d like to get to know you and be a good friend, if we can. Please write again.
I won’t comment on your book in detail this time let’s save that for the next letter. Tell me more about yourself, too. I’ll stop here today. Wishing you good health and success in your work. Sincerely, Muyassar.
Sorry for any grammar mistakes. I sometimes use Uyghur poorly Gulzar knows my little “comedies” about this.
She had sketched a charming caricature at the bottom my mother found it adorable.
Thrilled, Ablekim replied the same day with a warm, concise letter its grace shows in Muyassar’s second reply:
Hello, my dear Abrams. I received your letter thank you. I’m late in answering. I’ve been worn out by writing and couldn’t send in time. I’m drafting a paper for our school magazine it’s gone through two or three revisions. When I start something, I give myself to it fully until it meets the mark! I’m still revising nervous indeed.
I was very happy to read your letter, especially your praise for Mr. Heng Tian. I met him eleven years ago; we lived together for five years. I now call him Father, and his wife Mother have done so for five years. I can’t express my feelings for them in a few words. Meeting them changed my life.
Without them, I wouldn’t be here. It was a joy to read what you wrote about him; he was pleased.
Reading your letter, I feel I understand your character a little. Some of our thoughts may be similar. You write of love love itself. I see love as the noblest and most beautiful human feeling, and also one that can wound the heart. Two lovers support and understand each other, cry together, laugh together. After five years in Japan seeing and hearing so much I’ve realized how great the differences are between us and them. They aren’t wholly wrong or wholly right. But when you believe in what’s right, you may choose differently than I do. I keep reminding myself to do what I truly think is right.
Is Beijing cold? Yokohama is mild; winters aren’t too harsh. I spent two years in Beijing and four in Shanghai somehow I forgot Urumqi’s cold.
Yet I always Muyassar Urumqi winters. My brother and I used to go to school through snowy darkness; flakes glowed blue in lamplight. I always remember. I left my parents eleven years ago and have lived alone since. Sometimes I turn back and see how far I’ve come. Life is wonderful and now, meeting you, it feels good and pleasant. Mr. Heng Tian asks after you from time to time.
I want to ask you something. I’m thinking of going to Beijing around January 2003. What do you think? I’d like your opinion. I might go with Mr. Heng Tian he says he’ll take me but Beijing is so cold, I may go alone. I won’t go to Urumqi. I may visit my teacher perhaps it won’t work out. At least, I hope we can be true friends.
New Year is near. What awaits us in 2003? What will you do on New Year’s Eve? I wonder if I’ll do something meaningful.
Father and Mother send warm greetings. The roses at the end of your letter were beautifully drawn. Wishing you a happy life and good health. Respectfully, Muyassar.
At the end was a photo: Muyassar in a park at night petite, round-faced, with large eyes, and a sharp, knowing gaze. Ablekim stared at the picture for a long time, lost in colorful imaginings. He thought of her plan to come to Beijing perhaps their lovely fantasy might soon become reality. The bluesnow memory in her letter made her feel like a poet at heart, someone he might share deep affinities with: ideas, insights, inspirations. Moved, he wrote another reply five pages in a single sitting. Rereading it, he was struck by the sincerity and depth of feeling lines more beautiful than any he had put in his poems before. He felt that the truest work springs from a person’s nature; letters and diaries are masterpieces in themselves. It was one of his finest letters; he remembers it fondly still. He sent it that same day.
Shortly after New Year, Muyassar’s next letter arrived three pages on delicately colored, perfumed paper adorned with blooming roses. As Ablekim opened it, the scent seemed to carry her presence.
“Hello, my dear Ablekim!” she began. “I was so happy to receive your letter last night. Mr. Heng Tian and I are well. He sent your greetings to his family; they were delighted and return warm wishes. You answered what I
asked in my last letter. I worried my childhood stories might bore you. I was glad you understood me.”
She wrote of leaving home for Japan, of Urumqi as the warmest place in memory, and of high school days she remembered as if yesterday. Once, on her way home, an elegantly dressed elder stopped her near the Xinjiang Daily office: “Child, whose daughter are you?” She answered, unafraid.
“Your mother was my middle school student,” he said. “I’ve been in the Soviet Union nearly thirty years; I returned just the day before.” He entered their home, greeted her parents with tears. “Now,” Muyassar wrote, “I write at my desk, looking at my parents’ photo. I feel I’m stepping into my mother’s youth. I don’t know why I’m telling you this as New Year approaches, I Muyassar home and my parents, and I get tangled and emotional. Forgive me.”
She thanked Ablekim again for his letters, saying perhaps she had found a rare friend by chance. She was still thinking of coming to Beijing in January.
“If it’s too cold, could you lend me a winter coat?” she asked. “Father and Mother want to come too. I’ll discuss it again if it turns out to be my plan, I may go alone. I need to care for them, and they’re busy. I’ll write again if I travel.” She added, “You wrote that even if I’m frustrated, I can restore myself. But when I’m frustrated, I can’t fix myself quickly. Will you reach out and comfort me then?”
“I’ve read your letter many times,” she continued. “I feel I understand what you mean and think. It will be fun to talk with someone like you welleducated, able to write good letters, full of ideas. What is a beautiful life to
you? What are your sweetest thoughts? May I know? I completely agree with you that ‘feelings should be cherished; hope is born from feelings.’”
“As you said, 2003 is almost here. In the New Year, let’s cherish every day, cherish ourselves, and do our best to live well. New Year’s Eve may be study time for me reading is the most enjoyable and meaningful thing. You wrote that you continue to explore poetry. I believe life holds good and beautiful things, and many good people. Literature leads us toward beauty and hope it is devoted work. I’m sure you’ll write strong poems. In contemporary Uyghur literature, one line remains forever dear to me Eliop’s ‘Cold water burns the heart.’ A phrase like that can lift a person’s self-respect and the world. I’ve read Uyghur, Russian, Chinese, Japanese, and Turkish literature. In junior high, I read Dream of the Red Chamber, By the Water, and Romance of the Three Kingdoms in both Uyghur and Chinese. I’m very interested in Chinese literature and hold it in high regard. I like Lu Xun. I don’t know what you think of Han Chinese but I dislike when Uyghur youth scorn Han people without understanding. Seeing some bad habits among the Han, I recognize our Uyghur virtues and cleanliness but I also continue to find many good qualities we lack. In Japan, I’ve worked hard to show people who I am: Chinese, that is, Uyghur distinct from Han. It’s sad when people lack confidence and acceptance of others. Perhaps that’s where I differ from many.”
“In future, I may be an avid reader of your work. I won’t offer easy praise but when your writing is good, I will translate it into Japanese and publish it responsibly here. The year 2003 is approaching. We still have chances to do great things and plenty of time. My five years in Japan, summed up in a
word, are five years of struggle with myself. When a person wins over themselves, they may truly win. I understand this in many ways. I wish for a friend with whom I can speak openly, without hiding anything. That would be wonderful. I want to write more but I’ll leave it for my next letter. Waiting for yours. Respectfully, Muyassar.”
Ablekim read the letter again and again. In it, Muyassar revealed her inner world more clearly especially lines like “I want to see you,” “I’ve found a rare friend,” “I look forward to your letter,” and the gentle invitation:
“What is your beautiful life? Your sweetest thoughts? May I know?” His spirits soared. That night, after a quiet burst of happiness, Ablekim wrote a solemn letter full of youthful courage and sincere hope and as he wrote, he felt he truly loved her.
For a month after sending it, no reply came. Daily, he checked the mailbox; without a letter, he drifted between hope and despair. Then one day, Gulzar called, voice sparkling:
“I heard from Muyassar she’s coming to Beijing next Tuesday. She asked for your office number. She may call you herself.”
“Oh yes. Thank you.”
For a moment, he felt swept away by excitement. Then he recalled a line from a Western thinker: “Excessive impulse is a sign of weakness.” He urged himself toward calm and courage.
The next day, someone from the police station arrived: a Xinjiang detainee arrested for selling “white cigarettes” needed an interpreter. They took Ablekim in their car; he was the youngest at the bureau, quick on his feet,
and this happened to him from time to time. In the interrogation room sat a Uyghur woman Rose her beauty dimmed by a slight limp and a face etched with pain. Ablekim had interpreted for men before, but this was his first time with a female prisoner. For a moment he lost his bearings.
“What’s your name?”
“Rose.”
“Where did you get the heroin?”
“From Yunnan.”
“How long have you been doing this?”
“I wouldn’t my husband is a performer. I wanted to send it to my boss. I didn’t even know what it was. They wanted me to be jailed from the start. I’m just a young woman, brother. I’d never do such a thing. I’m wronged. Please, say a word for me justify me…”
Ablekim translated faithfully, adding a few softening phrases in her defense. The officer gave him a thin, sarcastic smile.
“Do you know how she carried it? In a coat, hidden in an inner pocket.
Don’t underestimate our dogs. She’s part of a ring a professional ‘white’ we’ve watched for a long time. Don’t believe her, don’t pity her. We need her to confess her crimes and her accomplices from her own mouth. Do that, and you’ll be fine with us.”
Ablekim felt stunned, as if glimpsing a darker figure behind Rose an unseen demon linked to the trade. Rose couldn’t fully answer; she cried. The officer slammed the table and toyed with an electric baton. After nearly
an hour, she broke down. She confessed. In her eyes appeared that drained, fatal sign like someone tired of life itself. That expression struck Ablekim more than anything else.
They pushed her into a holding room. Ablekim’s work was done; he collected his translation fee. He asked, almost involuntarily, “How will you deal with her?” A scene unfolded in his mind: her legs giving way when the sentence was handed down; women officers lifting her into a car; the road to prison lined with tears and whispered prayers. A black cloth over her eyes, wrists bound, knees pressed to the cold ground. A shove, a fall, a single groan perhaps “Oh my God.” It depended on what faith or despair she could still reach.
The police drove Ablekim back toward Idris. Along the way, Gulzar’s face flickered in his thoughts shadows and bright fragments mingling. In the end, her dark eyes hovered in the night; her face shattered like a broken mirror and disappeared.
Back at the office, a colleague said a call had come from Japan: be there by 8 p.m. Ablekim waited, heart thudding when the phone rang. He lifted the receiver. Muyassar’s voice flowed through.
“Hello, my dear.”
“Yes it’s me. How are you, Muyassar? Are Mr. Heng Tian and his wife well?”
“Yes, everyone’s fine.”
“I’m doing well too especially after meeting you.”
“That’s good. It’s been a joy for me as well.”
“When are you coming to Beijing?”
“Let’s say… the three of us will arrive next Tuesday around 9 p.m. The hotel and rooms are booked.”
“I’ll pick you up at the airport.”
“No need the hotel car will bring us. Just come to Tian Qiao Hotel; Gulzar will be there.”
“All arranged then. Will you stay in Beijing a bit longer?”
“Only three days. I can’t persuade Father and Mother to extend especially Mother. She says she wants to see you herself,” Muyassar added with a sweet laugh. “Anyway, the main purpose is to see you. Second eat at a Uyghur restaurant with songs. They love that.”
“It’s short but the thought of your arrival is enough to make me hopeful.”
“You say it so clearly,” she teased. “When I talk to you, I feel hope.”
“What an easy birth,” Muyassar laughed softly. There was enthusiasm, honesty, and a touch of humor in her voice Ablekim felt relieved.
“I don’t know why but I become optimistic when I speak with you,” he said, a small sigh escaping.
“Alright then give us a good welcome.”
“Of course you’re special guests.”
“But don’t disturb your work for us. We don’t grind as hard as in Japan and I can stretch my time a little.”
“Then we’ll see you when you arrive,” Muyassar laughed again.
“Be safe. See you soon. Goodbye.”
The conversation left Ablekim in a buoyant, sweet rush of thoughts. Everything seemed in place; nothing was missing. Yet he knew better than to over-interpret her tone foolish to map every nuance. Still, his poetic sensitivity pushed him toward subtle readings. He pursued perfection if she drew close, he would fall in love; if she recoiled, he would spiral into anger and sorrow.
The next day, Gulzar called and gave a quick etiquette briefing. “Japanese custom: first meeting look presentable, be attentive, exchange gifts.”
Ablekim took it to heart. He went to the mall, bought a good suit, boxed Uyghur music CDs neatly, picked expensive chocolates for Mr. and Mrs. Heng Tian, and a beautiful sweater for Muyassar. He chased gifts until the malls closed.
On the way home, a dark, parked bus with its lights off caught him by the side window a sharp knock, then he was down. His sweet imaginings scattered. A bad omen, he thought. A chill of foreboding crept in. He believed in a sixth sense; he couldn’t shake it.
He was hurrying away when a voice cut through the dark: “Stop. Where are you going? Pay for the light.”
“I didn’t see it it’s dark.”
“The light’s broken, I said! Trying to run? Pay double. Poor coward. Liar.”
The driver a Beijinger spoke like it was a game.
“You shouldn’t park with your lights off. It’s illegal. If you want money, call traffic police,” Ablekim said, noting the driver’s slight drunkenness.
“Everything’s broken! Go guy don’t be stupid!”
Ablekim exhaled and moved on, smiling at the absurdity.
Waiting out the two-hour delay felt heavy. Gulzar checked the time; Ablekim grew restless. They didn’t talk. Gulzar’s serious, thoughtful face seemed to sink deeper into study. Ablekim glanced and suddenly felt like a playwright watching his own scene.
Two and a half hours later, the Japanese group streamed into the lobby with their bags tired yet still vigorous, orderly, elegant. Gulzar darted forward with two small steps, raised a hand, then hugged a girl smaller than herself, with curly hair. Muyassar was moved by the warmth; she stood straight and smiled. She greeted Mr. and Mrs. Heng Tian quickly; then she gave Ablekim a faint, friendly smile. Ablekim steadied himself, greeted all three. The bows echoed movie scenes heads inclined, “Hai” murmured softly.
They moved into the reserved room and exchanged warm greetings. Mr. and Mrs. Heng Tian glanced at Ablekim from time to time; he felt shy, fought to sound natural. Muyassar translated his words; the couple smiled, replied; she relayed back to Ablekim.
Mr. Heng Tian presented a fine pen. Muyassar passed it to him. “Father hopes this helps you write more and better.”
Ablekim stood, suddenly excited. “Thank you for your kindness. I’ll do my utmost not to disappoint.” Gulzar and Muyassar exchanged a quick smile; Ablekim looked like a diligent clerk pledging himself before a calm Japanese official.
Muyassar gave Ablekim high-end gray leather gloves. The gray struck him his favorite, born from white and black, like a sun-lit misty sky.
Ablekim offered his gifts. The couple accepted happily; Muyassar put on the sweater, checked the mirror perfect, she was pleased; Ablekim felt relief.
The next morning, Ablekim waited at the hotel entrance. Muyassar came out with a lively, cheerful air. They talked along the way; she wanted books in her field, and Ablekim guided her to the biggest bookstore. He proposed a taxi. “Let’s take the bus,” she said. She showed no pretense, no hauteur; her words were spare and understated; humor bubbled up now and then. Ablekim relaxed and opened up. They forgot the world around them, lost in conversation.
The bookstore wasn’t open yet. They lingered, talking.
“Our people don’t read other languages much,” Ablekim said. “It narrows perspective.”
“If you don’t read, you stagnate,” Muyassar replied. “But reading only what you yourself write? That’s not reading it’s vanity.”
Ablekim noticed her distinct way of thinking. She read more widely than he did; her mind felt sharper, differently tuned. He felt a gap and a sudden emptiness.
When the store opened, she chose several titles. They wandered the market, stopped at a café for coffee, chatted without formalities, then went to meet Gulzar. Muyassar spoke lightly: “This boy is funny I want to roam the underground market.” Ablekim’s earnestness made her laugh again. He didn’t mind he laughed at himself, which, in its way, felt like spiritual poise.
Muyassar went to the hotel to make a call. Gulzar asked, “So? What’s happening?”
“We haven’t spoken formally yet,” Ablekim said, eyes following Muyassar’s direction.
“Use the time only three days. Don’t wait for the perfect moment. She’s a girl; she won’t say it first.”
“I know. I’ll write it, then say it.”
“Her reaction seems fine. Trust yourself.”
“You know me I still trust myself even if I get rejected.”
Gulzar laughed. “Poets are tough and arrogant. One little bruise to the ego, and some crumble. Looks like you’re not that kind of ‘real poet’.”
“You said a poet must be mad. I wasn’t a true poet until I went a little mad. Now my mind is loud, my courage shattered. One drink and I can’t speak.”
“Speak anyway. Every girl admires a man who dares to write so dare to talk.”
“Look at you, dark dreamer what am I afraid of?” Ablekim laughed at himself; Gulzar joined in.
“Do you think I suit her?”
“If I didn’t, I wouldn’t have introduced you.”
“You’re very confident but everyone sees differently.”
“You overthink one thing, Ablekim. It’s your poet’s trait and flaw: curiosity without action, hesitation without decisiveness, no gentleness, no rudeness just circling.”
“Wow cool analysis. Where’d you get that?”
“From watching you,” she grinned.
“You know me well. I think the same in my head.” Muyassar returned. Gulzar stood. “Eat and talk. Speak your mind. I’ll wait in my room.”
“Let’s eat together and not overthink together,” Muyassar said, wrinkling her nose like a child. “I’ve already eaten go. I’ll wait for your news,”
Gulzar waved, heading to class.
Ablekim and Muyassar went to a Uyghur restaurant near the school. They ordered, sat facing each other.
Ablekim steadied himself and began. “Let’s be direct. You didn’t reply to my last letter, and I thought you’d answer in person. Can we talk now?”
“I’ve read your letter several times,” Muyassar said. “It gave me many thoughts I can’t list them all. Would you study abroad?”
“Of course but I won’t go abroad by saying yes and suddenly becoming a clown. I want to earn it either save money or pass an exam first.”
“You don’t start from zero abroad,” Muyassar said. “I’ve been in Japan five years I’ve changed. Knowledge and experience taught me to take things seriously and meticulously. I told Father I wouldn’t answer until I met you. From last night, they feel good about you and so do I. But you can’t understand a person through a few letters or meetings. We may not have time to continue. And even then, no one is fully knowable. Sometimes you see someone in a glance; sometimes you don’t, even after years. Reading you, I feel your words don’t stray far from your nature. I wonder what do you think of me?”
“You didn’t fully express yourself in letters,” Ablekim said honestly. “In person, you’re more advanced sharper, more exacting than you wrote.”
“My writing isn’t as strong as yours,” Muyassar smiled. “To keep my mother tongue, I write letters sometimes to practice. I’m slow I can’t reply quickly.”
“No one in Beijing is idle,” Ablekim said. “But still you gave your precious time. Each letter made me happy.” He paused. “In the end, my reply became… too much.”
Muyassar leaned in, amused. “Beer?”
“I’ll drink if you will.”
“In Japan, we drink beer and sing karaoke. There’s a Turkish restaurant in Tokyo I went with Mother sometimes.”
“Then let’s drink to that.” Ablekim lifted his glass. “To our health and happiness.” Muyassar drank a little, set her glass down halfway.
“I’ll be studying three or four more years,” she said, tasting the meat and choosing her words. “I want to share what I’m thinking. Have you considered practical questions?”
“I did when writing,” Ablekim replied gently. “I’ll support you, no matter how long you study. Few in our circles pursue a PhD. I’m proud of you. It would be my life’s happiness to have a woman like you.”
“You should study too,” Muyassar said. “If you want a career, read. Literature may fit France more than Japan. I have a French classmate. If you want to study there, I can help.”
“I’d like that conditions limit me.”
“Create conditions try.”
“You’re right. I’ve worked in Beijing for that.”
“I don’t say this to place myself above you or make us equal. I say it frankly.”
“I don’t take it that way,” Ablekim said. “In your letters and now you’re honest, modest.”
“Don’t praise me too much,” Muyassar laughed. “People who flatter me often scold me later for the opposite.”
“That’s comic. Not everyone is two-faced. Some truly care.”
“I’m careful. I don’t rush to trust those who come too close. When I strive for perfection and something goes wrong, my nerves fray. One instinct is to force the finish: the other to abandon it. My flaw: I’m a perfectionist.”
“It’s not a complete flaw,” Ablekim said. “We all strive for perfection. But calm and patience matter. Suffering because you can’t reach it becomes selfpunishment. There are no perfect people or perfect things. Everything has a crack; everyone has a limit. Accepting that brings ease.”
“But I’m not someone who makes things easy,” Muyassar replied softly. “I try to mend flaws and heal limits as much as I can. Japanese rigor has seeped into me. I can’t change it quickly. I hold myself and others to standards. That’s how people and society grow.”
“You’re right,” Ablekim said. “I’m not urging you to concede to flaws only to treat them rightly.”
Muyassar nodded, thoughtful. “Then let’s agree on this: we honor high standards and we honor being human.”
Outside, winter light thinned over campus. Inside, their food cooled as the conversation warmed study plans, cities, languages, and the quiet bravery of doing things slowly and well. In that ordinary restaurant, amid clinking glasses and the low hum of songs, hope felt not flashy, not theatrical simply possible.
Here’s a refined continuation that polishes the language, clarifies the emotions and ideas, and keeps the original voice and cultural texture. I’ve smoothed dialogue, removed harsh or dehumanizing phrasing, and
preserved the core moments: consent, hope, debate, parting, and the letter that follows.
Their conversation roamed widely, sometimes sparring, often smiling.
Ablekim yielded more than once, not out of defeat, but out of regard for her careful thinking. Muyassar finished three small glasses of beer, cheeks flushed, eyes bright. Ablekim seized the moment not to wander, but to speak plainly. He shared his heart, promised steadiness, kept his best composure, and chose honest, gentle words.
Muyassar gave a subtle hint of consent no grand declaration, just the unmistakable warmth of agreement. Ablekim, breath quickening, asked softly, clear and hopeful, “Muyassar… do you truly agree?”
“Yes,” she said, sweetly but she didn’t meet his eyes. She let the word stand, nothing more. Ablekim’s heart pounded with joy. He raised his glass and, half laughing, half trembling, repeated to himself, “Then let’s be bold let’s drink to our happiness… my bride.”
She lifted her glass. They drank together. For Ablekim, it was as if he was tasting the sweetness of the whole world. The beauty wasn’t in the beer; it was in that “yes.” The world felt suddenly kinder.
Outside, the campus stirred with familiar student rhythms. Ablekim’s thoughts briefly veered to the troubles he knew frictions among friends, petty status games, people lost in quick money and bad choices. He pulled back from that dark edge. With Muyassar at his side, the distance between grace and grief felt both far and near coexisting but not determining his
next step. He thought of Rose, the arrested woman, and of Muyassar’s poised intelligence; the contrast tugged at him with a sad, poetic ache. He wanted to share the comparison, but Muyassar spoke first.
“Sometimes,” she said, “I envy a certain simplicity.”
Ablekim paused, surprised. “But that kind of simplicity can be ignorance falling behind. What is there to envy?”
“They don’t think as complicated as we do,” she answered quietly. “They carry fewer needless thoughts. They live more naturally. There’s something enviable in that.”
“So then should we envy animals? They don’t overthink; they just live.”
“You’re Missing my point,” Muyassar said, a flash of irritation. “You call them animals but animals have virtues too. We need different angles to see clearly.”
Ablekim recognized her depth and decided not to argue. “You’re right every problem has more than one angle. Talking with you widens my view. And not all knowledge is taught in school.”
“Exactly,” she said. “Self-learning matters.”
“I don’t mean just books,” Ablekim added. “I mean learning from your own mind and your own life.”
“That’s the hard part and the true part,” Muyassar said. “But the world leans heavily on books and screens. As time moves, people risk becoming mechanical. In Japan, some work like machines.”
“Work like a machine,” Ablekim said. “Live like a human. Find joy.”
“Do you envy them?”
“Not just me the world admires those who master systems.”
“But most here are not of our faith,” Muyassar said carefully. “If they shared our values, I think they’d be nearly perfect. I’ve heard of Japanese scholars and converts do you think that’s true?”
“Possibly,” Ablekim said. “But there’s no perfect person no perfect nation.”
“Some people believe otherwise,” Muyassar murmured. “That’s a dangerous belief.”
“They may feel it’s right for them,” Ablekim said, “even if wrong for us.”
“In reality, there’s only one truth. So ‘wrong for us’ still matters,” Ablekim added, steady and earnest.
“Their success stems from belief,” Muyassar said. “We can’t ignore that.”
“If success alone makes something ‘right,’ then we’ve lost the thread,”
Ablekim said, heat rising. “People can ‘succeed’ through bad ideas and worse means. Without truth, success is empty.”
“What is truth then?” Muyassar asked, searching his eyes. “It’s character? Its limits?”
“For me,” Ablekim said, “truth and justice are rooted in our faith. God is the One who knows truth. The nature, the measure, the limits He is the source.”
“There are several major religions,” Muyassar said. “Each claims truth. That’s why we also need a scientific spirit method, evidence, humility.”
Muyassar fell silent, thinking. Ablekim softened the moment. “Shall we meet Gulzar, then head back to the lounge?”
“Not too long,” Muyassar said, an anxious glance. “If I’m late, Mother will worry.”
They found Gulzar reading with snacks laid out. Muyassar stepped into the bath. Gulzar lifted her head: “Well? How was it?”
“Good,” Ablekim said, a quiet smile.
“So… the light of happiness is it in your eyes?” Gulzar teased.
“It’s shining,” he admitted. “Muyassar blushed and I’m happily dizzy.”
“Muyassar is a good girl,” Gulzar said. “You can make it work.”
“The book is just open,” Ablekim replied. “We’ll read to the end. But she can’t be expected to fall after two or three pages.”
“Then don’t disappoint her,” Gulzar said gently. “Unmarried women are sensitive to small things. Be steady. Don’t waste a good beginning.”
“That’s what fears me most,” Ablekim sighed. “Some girls give huge meaning to small things turning them into elephants. If she reads my
book, then watches me, she might hunt for flaws. I love her and I don’t want carelessness to make me look wild or unreliable. If it’s only curiosity and we can’t deepen it, then we’ll both be hurt.”
“You’re overthinking,” Gulzar said. “She’s not a child making rash judgments.”
Muyassar returned; Ablekim felt suddenly exposed, as if she’d overheard. A new pressure rose within him, born of longing to marry, to build a life.
“It’s my happiness to love this extraordinary girl,” he thought. He felt the upper hand remained with her and trusted it.
The next evening, Gulzar and Ablekim took Mr. and Mrs. Heng Tian and Muyassar to one of Beijing’s big Uyghur music restaurants. They ate barbecue and polo, clapped for drummers and dancers, and when the disco started, they laughed, rose, and danced like exuberant students. Ablekim, once a ballroom enthusiast, forgot himself, moving to the beat as if writing a poem with his body. When he finally stopped, he realized he was alone onstage, grinning breathless.
That night, Ablekim walked the couple back, then escorted Muyassar to her room with Mr. Heng Tian’s blessing. Ablekim’s apartment was old, but cozy; it had seen friendly gatherings, narrow-space dances, lively laughter. Muyassar sat on the bed, smiling at the memory of the night.
“Our housing is like this,” Ablekim said. “In a crowded city, even a single bed is hard to place. We wait for the unit to assign flats, but nothing comes.”
“Your room is lovely as it is,” Muyassar said. “If you want space, countryside living exists.”
“We cling to the city fresh air or not,” Ablekim smiled. “Japan’s conditions are better.”
“Not every home is luxurious,” Muyassar answered. “It varies by person.”
A chill of worry went through Ablekim, like a draft. He forgot to pour tea. Words drifted between them, softer than the room’s dim lamp. They watched a Uyghur VCD for a while. Then, concerned for her parents, Ablekim walked Muyassar to the street to catch a taxi. Past midnight, few came. The wind was stark. He gently drew her into an embrace to keep her warm. She leaned in, lamb-soft; her hair carried a faint fragrance; their hearts seemed to align without words. Ablekim thought to kiss her and remembered Gulzar’s counsel. He held his ground, kept reverence. A taxi arrived; he helped her in. At the hotel entrance, she glanced back from the lobby something like a sign. Ablekim couldn’t decode it, but held the image with care, the way one keeps a pressed flower.
On the third day, Ablekim took Muyassar to bid Gulzar farewell. They were flying back in the morning. Gulzar was busy but warm small table, many things, tea poured quickly. She gifted Muyassar fine lipstick. Ablekim then led Muyassar through the trees and grass of the campus where he’d studied for five years. It was late. Under a familiar tree, he held her, and they teased and talked with a playfulness he rarely reached. Muyassar matched him with bright enthusiasm. Here, under the “Siberian sky” of his memories,
Ablekim had often dreamed, and after graduation, felt those dreams slip away. But now, he held a doctoral student in his arms and spoke of futures, forgetting the rest of the world.
Back at Ablekim’s room, they were closer than the day before lighter, freer. He dimmed the light, invited her to dance. She laughed and danced with him.
“You’re so romantic,” she said. “I feel it in your poems.”
“I’ve loved beautiful things since childhood,” Ablekim answered. “I think in ways that don’t always fit reality and I can’t escape that.”
“If you study in France,” she said, eyes sparking, “you’ll be different more romantic, a greater poet. Believe me I’ll help you.”
Ablekim felt a door open, a window swings wide he held her tight. “Knowing you is one of the most memorable gifts of my life. I’ll cherish it always.”
They danced long, spoke of futures even the wedding. Muyassar took off her shoes, sat on the bed, close and confident, as if sweetness had become the room’s air. She shared her situation: Japan studies, some earnings from work, then Beijing where she hoped to buy a flat to make life easier for Mr. and Mrs. Heng Tian and herself. Ablekim, who had hesitated about buying in Beijing, felt more certain. They agreed: if possible, a wedding sooner rather than later.
In the morning, Ablekim took her to the lobby. He returned to his unheated room, breathing the faint perfume left in memory, staring at the little lamp that had lit their dance, set his alarm, and drifting into a sweet sleep. He arrived at the hotel early. Muyassar waited in the salon. Soon Mr. and Mrs. Heng Tian appeared with small bags. Ablekim bowed lightly, Japanese-style. The airport bus was idle. He sat next to Muyassar for a last few minute. A late Japanese guest climbed aboard, apologized; the bus jolted. Ablekim said formal goodbyes; Muyassar waved from the window; his hand lifted, sad and proud. In that moment, he knew he truly loved her. Three days is brief, but sometimes it lays a foundation. Time is cruel and fair; reality is indifferent. Words can be snapshots but they can also be vows.
In his diary, he wrote:
“We must face death because the dead cannot return. She has raised a monument in my heart. Those days will not fade. Fear at first, then harmony then a happiness that shook me. The joy of love stands behind me like a guardian. Curiosity can be scientific natural and still tender. The future looks bright. Do I doubt my happiness? My memories drown in a kind of sadness. Those days are lost in their original shape, yet alive in essence. A baby unfed is called useless, but love survives hunger. We drew near; our hearts sparked. Love is the flower of relationship the refined flower. Old pains vanished in new light. I will marry her. I thought it impossible then possible and when possible, it seemed easy. But it is not simple. She may not be ‘cute’ in the shallow sense, but she is wonderfully intelligent, hardworking, virtuous capable of childlike joy, play, and
laughter. I sensed this when I first wrote to her. Some girls must be raised, carefully, like children then they bloom. She is careful to do right. I know my feelings; if they seem messy, it is my breath failing my words. When we embraced, the ‘little girl’ had become a great woman. I thought: my future wife, my companion, my heart’s steward, my beloved…”
That afternoon, a phone call came through Mr. Heng Tian’s office line; then Muyassar’s beautiful voice safe in Japan. A few weeks later, another letter arrived, on perfumed paper blooming with flowers. Ablekim opened it like a prayer.
Dear Ablekim,
Hello. Seeing you in Beijing made me happy. I was glad to say goodbye, to arrive safely, to speak with you yesterday and to write today. You spent so much time with us, cared for us, and worked hard. Thank you. Though the visit was short, I realized many things I hadn’t grasped in a long while. It was very good for me.
Yesterday, I said on the phone I might try not to think about these matters at all. That isn’t possible. I’ve been thinking of you and of marriage all day. My head aches from thinking. But I must write to you. Perhaps writing will calm me.
I reread your letter twenty times when I came back. How could you write to me so well? Let me tell you what I think. Your impression on the three of us is likely better than you imagined. Your photo and letter were better than I expected. How did you feel when you saw me?
Yesterday, I told my teachers I didn’t want to speak too soon. They were happy anyway. I haven’t decided to marry anyone yet. It should be a happy thing yet I’m worried. Can we both be happy? Can I trust what you say to me what you write? How can I trust? Are you truly the good young man you seem? I feel there are many unanswered questions. I’m embarrassed but I can only say such things to you. Perhaps I know less than other girls my age. You don’t need to teach me from the start but I sincerely wish you could help me in many ways.
Yesterday I spoke to my parents on the phone for almost an hour. They were very happy. I said, “Mother, I may marry someone in July.” Since yesterday, I think I’ve said too much, perhaps I rushed. Mother said, “We’ll think and write later; I can’t say much now. But I’m very happy.” You have read so much. Now, we cannot tell you firm instructions. But as your parents, we want you to be happy.” I didn’t tell them my private worries. I’m waiting for their letter. I don’t know what my answer should be, but I think things are moving in a good direction. Try to think of the good side too.
I told no one but my closest friend and my parents. Perhaps you’ve heard from Gulzar. For now, let’s keep writing, keep knowing each other more fully. I want you to consider your affairs as mine, to care for yourself as I would, and not to hurt me with careless words. It’s best if we can build with care.
I think life is beautiful. Some friends and relatives are unmarried or unhappy. Daily routines can feel dull, men and women quarrel. I see this, and I still choose hope.
“If we do marry,” she wrote, “I want us to remain happy and warm as friends. What do you think?
I’ll end my letter here today. Wishing you good health.
Respectfully, Muyassar.”
Ablekim read the last line and felt a tremor: behind sweetness, a shadow of doubt. Her careful mind had resumed its work questioning, weighing. He imagined it might continue even into marriage. He felt himself tilt off balance, suddenly hollow. “I wasn’t certain,” he thought. “But I’ll try. I’ll go as far as it takes.” He pictured himself in Japan, anxieties heavy, but still moving. “For now, calm your heart,” he told himself. “Tighten the bond. Protect the love.”
He wrote back a warm, honest letter, promising to guard friendship, love, and trust, to give his life’s effort to it. He wanted to reassure her, even if only for a while. He thought: “We should keep writing letters like this until we marry.” Then doubts rose again: If she truly loves me, why she worries? If she hasn’t fully decided, will she keep me at arm’s length? Am I supposed to play a role pretend for months? That’s not in my nature. And if people can be understood immediately or not even after years what if I am, to her, one of those unknowable souls?
He remembered the adage: “Out of sight, out of mind.”
They had met only three days. A brief love, rushing toward a wedding. She told her family; their response was unclear. In Urumqi’s intellectual circles, city polish meets quiet pragmatism; people tolerate mixed habits, even as they dislike scrutiny. Her fiancé would work in the city; her family was in the countryside there were layers to consider. She hadn’t stated it outright, but Ablekim sensed it.
He told his own family, even in his uncertainty. Love is private; marriage involves many parents first, then friends, then the wider circle that gossips and weighs. Without a father, Ablekim wrote to his mother, enclosed Muyassar’s photo, and praised her at length. “I truly love her,” he wrote. “I will be happy with her.” Weeks later his brother called: the family had seen the letter; if Mother liked Muyassar, they had no objections.
A few days later, Muyassar’s reply arrived plain paper, not perfumed. Before reading, Ablekim felt his earlier brightness begin to fade.
“Ablekim,
Hello. I’m sorry my letter is late. I’m happy to receive yours; I’ve waited for it. I’m doing okay. Do you remember my tutor died before I left Beijing? (You may not recall.) I recently met my new supervisor; he has a different approach. My earlier teachers focused on ancient texts and commentaries. This time it’s full fieldwork and reality testing. I haven’t done any actual surveys yet; I don’t know how to begin. It’s hard to explain in a letter but please understand: my situation is difficult right now. I’m searching for an
idea thinking hard. In the worst case, I might need to change schools or supervisors. I’m sad. I don’t know what to do. I Muyassar you.
You were right in your letter: seeing you didn’t feel like a first meeting it felt like knowing a good friend for a long time. I’ll return to Beijing no matter what. I’ll write a separate letter about this. If we marry, I hope we’ll learn each other’s good, and support each other’s weak points.
I’m inquiring about France. First condition is a deposit 300,000 yuan in the bank. I’ll save in the future. Let’s consider our marriage. Should we invite our parents to marry in Beijing? I will listen to your opinion. What do you think? Perhaps we can save. Beijing might be a good meeting point. You must go abroad to Europe. To be a writer, to write good work, you should see the world as a whole. Thanks to Mr. Heng Tian’s family, I can study here. People help each other; no one lives alone. It’s my dream to walk Paris streets with you but we must work hard for that. I think we can live with noble hearts, good dreams, and determination trust each other, encourage each other, help each other.
It was a pleasure to meet you and Mr. Heng Tian through flowers, through chance. I’m lucky to meet a good boy like you. I’m trying my best to love you.
Father and Mother send greetings. Take care of your health. I wish you all the best. I end my letter Muyassar.”
Ablekim lingered on the last line “I’m trying my best to love you.” He believed her sincerity; the rest felt, perhaps, written under pressure. She didn’t say how her family had answered. He spent the day in a fog. Gulzar
told him: before marriage, every woman has worries. Perhaps it will go well don’t fret too much. Keep writing honest, moving letters.
Ablekim decided this time to focus on practicalities. He wrote about family approvals, shared that his mother was pleased with Muyassar’s photo, asked where to marry Beijing, Urumqi, or his hometown and noted that for a marriage certificate, she’d need to be in Beijing first. He avoided romantic flourish; he wanted clarity.
A month passed with no reply. He tried not to think of it, then thought of nothing else. Poetry failed him; only the diary offered small relief:
“I’m lagging time lazy to catch up. A month no letter. I don’t know what’s in her head what ghost in her heart. I can’t stand it. What is the point of this life? My wrist feels cut. In her letter she says, ‘I try to love you.’
What does ‘try’ mean? Am I forcing her or is she forcing herself? The information flooding our days does nothing for us. I long for the wild freedom of life and its honest joys. So much has been thinned by intellect. The age of studying is done; the age of living has come. Loneliness is declared dead and yet lives.
What causes lying? Where is love’s delight? Do I have to conjure it myself? I faint at the absurdity of these fantasies. If formal life is this, I’ll remain a gentle weakling with a taste for dreams and write poems of feeling.
Creativity’s source is the soul; its purpose is the soul’s pressure. If I don’t move, time tramples me. Distant friends, brothers, daughters, lovers gone, as if forever. I am alone on a small island. No one asks; no one knows where I am. Each morning, I begin with resolve; soon it withers in the cold of
loneliness. There is joy, there are desires especially childlike ones but no one to blame. Healthy, I fear sickness; alive, I fear death. Anxiety’s roots are fear; fear sickens the heart, drains warm blood, leaves it cold. Night is worse; day is a little better. Boredom breeds arrogance: effort becomes mere labor; dreams become the scaffolding of emotion. Fever, chill years thinning, slipping into autumn yellow leaves falling, yellow life. People imagine beauty, pleasure fantasy ungraspable. The fear of death fades, then flares red at sunset the fatal moment is beautiful. But the living doesn’t see it; it happens in an instant like a film.”
He checked the office mailbox daily only newspapers. Unable to bear it, he bought an international phone card and dialed Muyassar. The first two attempts failed. On the third, she answered.
“Who is it?”
“It’s me Ablekim. How are you?”
“I’m okay. You?”
“I’m managing. I didn’t get your reply I worried something was wrong.”
“It’s the supervisor situation,” she said. “It’s a mess.”
“Can you switch?”
“That’s not easy,” she snapped. “This isn’t China no shortcuts, no ‘living by lies.’ People prefer doing things themselves. Mr. Heng Tian has helped me so much; I haven’t repaid him should I burden him more? He wouldn’t like it. I wouldn’t either.”
Her tone cut Ablekim nerves flared. He felt lower; she sounded highstrung. She continued:
“I received your letter. You wrote: ‘My mother will like you.’ What did you mean? Are you the kind of man who can think and act independently or the kind who needs others to manage things? Your words made me think. I’m still thinking. You say you’ll marry me; you live in Beijing. If you truly love me, would you write like that? And: ‘If we marry and live happily, I’ll carry you around like a child at home…’ What did that mean? Am I supposed to be treated like a little kid? Some lines in your letter made me very sad. Father asked about it. I couldn’t bear to repeat them; he was angry. Your letter drove me crazy during a hard month of study. Our days in Beijing were good; after I agreed, your letters changed especially that last one. You wrote without considering what I know or think like disco play.” She hesitated. “Don’t misunderstand I didn’t say this at the time. But you remember that disco night. We were embarrassed. I told Gulzar. ‘Oh my God’ every time I read your letter, I recall that reckless, messy dancing.”
For a month she had been chewing on the same thoughts. Now the phone card was melting five cents a minute, twenty minutes in all. Ablekim tried to explain, to say he’d meant fondness and playfulness, not belittlement but his words tangled. Then the call-center voice: “One minute remaining.”
“Muyassar the card is out,” he rushed. “Can you call me back? I’m at the office.”
She said nothing. The line died.
Ablekim waited no ring. He lingered at the desk, staring at the phone. Nothing. At last, he left, heavy. In his diary:
“It feels like a half-death. For a month I was the little ghost in her belly, depressed, I was desperate. I urged her to think of the better side she didn’t. ‘My mother will love you’ she heard it as weakness. I tried to speak ‘wait, I’ll say’ then the card ran out. Don’t call me if you won’t. I waited the silence swelled love’s loudness went quiet, maybe forever. The wedding turned into a joke. The hugs and dances vanished. We don’t have strength to plan. I stared at the phone and left the office. A month’s waiting ended in the price of a phone card painful and small. I went to my room. The body is still held by the soul; the quilt becomes a smooth, delicate body. Error in imagination is sex. Song, desire, pain rise and fall. Science cannot map happiness’s limits; perhaps no one can. Every past puts a wrinkle in our face; every step closes a door. Our struggles surge: our pursuits are left behind…”
Two weeks later, a one-page letter arrived:
“Are you well, Ablekim?
After much thought, I decided to write. I hoped things would settle by the end. They didn’t. I think we don’t fit. I told Father he didn’t disagree. My studies are changing; the PhD will take longer. Perhaps I shouldn’t consider marriage at all. You should find a girl who fits you. Let’s go our separate ways. Please don’t write again.
Wishing your health and good work Muyassar.”
Ablekim reeled. A single page had struck through his hopes. His pride hurt but he searched for himself and found no unforgivable fault. Was “My mother will love you” really a crime against independence? Could he have set aside his parents in a life-defining decision? Her foster parents Mr. and Mrs. Heng Tian might matter more than her own family’s opinions. In truth, everyone advises; no one decides for you. He thought perhaps she has read so much that custom loosened, mind grew complicated, and love if it existed was too fragile. He closed with a diary entry:
“So the broken phone foretold a broken love. My sadness did not last long; sarcasm followed. Nature remains calm. My body is fine, free; only mind and soul are sick. I look for joy in things, think of the past, fear the future. The opposite sex feels distant a stranger. Maybe I won’t escape chronic mental illness before I die. It’s not terror like cancer or AIDS, but it tortures quietly. Let it not be in vain; I can find medicine in poetry. There, psychiatry becomes craft.”
Beijing, January 5, 2004.