Oh My God, the child is the only one who cries and torments me. I have been thinking like this since I got on the bus.
Even if she did not give in to the initiative, I did or sinned, how boring to travel alone with Papa, over sunny, sweaty, sticky, all this new to me, sending one of our own to prevent them from coming, Papa stopped crying when he went into her arms, both of them laughed at that, Then we made our contacts.
My name, and my Village , my husband talked a lot like this, his name is Yashoda, he is not married yet, he is looking for a teacher job. The two became friends. We took each other’s addresses, got off before me and told me to write letters and the bus got off.
Her address was taken but my baby fell into the walls and forgot to write the letter, I got a letter in my name to my mother’s house for a week. I tore up the letter and read who wrote the letters to me.
Yashoda wrote a letter with harsh words saying, “Did you forget me, are the bus friendships limited to the bus? I did not think so.”
We even went to each other’s houses. I could not go to her love wedding. In each letter, Yashoda wrote, “Sharda, our friendship is as pure as a jasmine flower.”
I also thought our friendship with Feel It was an intense attachment. As the years went by, our sins grew and matured. Yashoda’s son wanted to forget our friendship under kinship when he was an adult, but could not.
Slowly the number of letters coming from Yashoda decreased. I did not know how many letters I wrote. This time I wrote and posted a two page letter with some pain. The answer came within a week, I read it along with my letter.
The point in it is, my husband occasionally drinks, and I’m angry with you for hiding from me without telling me that your husband is a drunkard.
I am the only one in the world who does not understand that if a husband gets drunk, it’s a barrier to friendship with his wife. We do not ..
But one day she sent a man to our town and sent me a letter saying that he would not write me any more letters, and that he had told me that he was very wise for being friends with someone like you, so that if a man was sent, the people in the town would know, especially my husband, and he would tell her that she too Annoyingly Libran – always rational, easily hurt emotionally, very passionate and maybe a little too intense.
Some years passed in a black pregnancy. My children became adults. They died suddenly of a heart attack. My friend Yashoda, who remembered me at the time, thought that I should share my pain with him, put my head on his shoulder and reduce the burden of grief, so I sent our little boy and looked for him.
Our little boy went to their house and introduced himself and gave him the letter I had written. Yashoda gave him some tea, read the whole letter and said to him
“Whose caps and theirs are theirs, whose sufferings are theirs, who cares for each other on any given day, we have to experience ourselves no matter what happens, Memochi is what we do, this house is there but we have suffering.”
When he heard that, he came without even telling me if he was going from there, and he could not tell me what was going on. He laughed and looked at me in fear. I tapped him and thought to myself, “Sadly Yashoda showed her female intellect. For a shoulder. The waitress thought she had sent me, just for the money.
Friendship is not something that can be measured by money. Once upon a time, I wondered if a friend who could not understand my pain had suffered for years.