I can’t hardly pass the continual of this beautiful explanations by dear friend symbolreader before begin to travel into my holidays.

I have to express my regrets at the missing our comprehension of the symbols or we have forgotten all that about!

Let us do the effort to find out and might remember the loss.

Here is another wisely tell by symbolreader about one of the greatest book of our time.

Reading The Red Book (5)

By https://symbolreader.net/

Finally, I dare to write about my parents’ love story, as I once announced my intention to do so. I said “to dare” because I never could be fully aware of it; I was a little kid those days, and in those seven years of my beginning to know my environment, I experienced my Dad, and there are vague remembrances in my memories.

As I’m digging in my dusty uncertainty, I can see some pictures of my Dad and Mam in some romantic ways; I was just in my 5th year, told them they should lie down on the ground beside each other, and I pushed their faces towards one another so that their lips met… (what a child!!) And, of course, I can still hear his steps, walking to and fro, up there on the second floor; in these moments, we are commanded to keep silent because he is writing. He had his territory on the second floor, a big office room with books all around on the shelves on the walls, and when he got there, we couldn’t have any claim on our father; our mother was rigorous there about. I understood it after my brother and I had lived alone. He was often portrayed as a father, although he had never agreed with this.

Also, I recall how Dad came downstairs with his belt when we, as children, were not quiet enough, and there was my brother Al, who received the most beatings. But also, I remember when he came down as I was sick, and my mother called the doctor to come and give me an injection, and you can swear that I called all gods to help me keep this unfortunate doctor away from me. And yes, there was no chance for my Dad to come downstairs and look for these yellings and chase the doctor out of the house; in this very moment, his heart was more full of love towards me than for my health, or he just wanted to finish this tumult! In any case, he almost threw the doctor out of the house and kissed me in protection; I will never forget his wonderful smiling face as I lay in fever in bed, and his beautiful face came towards mine.

And just a little more: I see him (Dad) sitting on the sofa, wearing his socks in an agitated and furious way, shouting to Mother, who was in the kitchen, “So, then I get outdoors.” I hear Mother shouting back, “GO!” I’m sitting in front of him on the carpet, asking, Where are you going, Father? Nowhere, he backed!

So, having talked enough, let’s get to the love story. Although I don’t know all about it, I’ve heard and read about it. My mother had to get married at a very young age, as it was customary in the 1930s. But her husband was a general and, as it meant to be, a man of brutality. He loved our mother, but in his way, he kissed and beat her! They were no longer than three or four years together and had offspring, Soroosh, till my mother got enough and decided to escape.

She was surely not able to do it as easily as possible today. Therefore, she established a connection with her sister, Rakhshandeh (also known as Khalle Rakhshy). Of course, she was one of, let me count, the eighth of her sisters, but she was also one of the pioneers of fighting for women’s rights in those days.

Although this picture is later from that time, I had seen a pic of her in those days; the picture showed a laughing girl dressed in white, and I tell you, dressed very generously in comparison to that time, she was working as a nurse in one of the vast and famous hospitals in the big town: Mashhad, a city in far eastern Iran, and as my Mom told us once; she had a life like the girls in the Woodstock time! She was a woman of life; nobody could get near her. She was married then, and her husband was a wonderful man who had no objections.

Anyway, in this picture, as you can see, she looks in another way; that is because, as I heard, she had visions and a meeting with the prophets! And I tell you, I believed her because she always knew something happened before it happened! She had the might of a foreseer.

Anyway, she had rescued our mother and got her into her big old house. As I once heard, a snake lived in the attic for many years, protecting the house. To put it bluntly, I was often there, every summer, but never met this snake, though; I had heard some creeping noise on the roof now and then when I stayed there.

So, my aunt got a divorce for Mom, as she knew how to do it back then. Now, she had noticed how sensitive her sister was and found out why: her love for one of the most famous writers of that time, my Dad.

Also, she was clever enough to arrange to let them meet each other, and she was sure it’d work out; my father was a famous writer at that time and almost in her forties, and my mother was just about twenty. In any case, she planned a meeting; she’d heard that my father was just for a short stay in the town and lured him into the house. As he belted the ring, my aunt pushed my mother to open the door, and there it happened. Mother was in love with my father through his books, and my father was amazed at my mom’s beauty when she opened the door. Then they got married.

Of course, it’s begun a challenge of love and hate! I think it’s a well-known story in the life of every artist throughout world history. But stunningly, my mother took the patience; I believe she merely contended that her husband is a cherished, renowned writer, and many women admired him, as my mother did. Therefore, everybody must endure the pain!

There, the story of unforgiven love began. My Dad was famous enough to be invited to travel not only around Persian cities but also to foreign countries. It wasn’t enough for my Mom; there was another problem as well. Dad was against the dictatorship. He was against the Shah’s regime and the Mullahs’ existence. He was a Muslim believer, but in a mystical sense. He had even been hated by the Muslim clergy.

Let politics be on the side. Many young girls have adored him, and their affection has inspired him. However, over time, this affection faded somewhat, and his inspiration diminished as well. Thus, my mother, in her genuine love, chose to write him anonymous love letters, encouraging his creativity to produce more stories.

I must mention that my father had to supply all of us, but he could only write, and nothing else. He was, as some artists might be, a man of art and not of money! That was not an easy life, I promise, as in the end, I might say the lasted ten-year love story got its end, as our parents came home after a marriage party and in the middle of the night my father got a brain attack and left us little kids and a young inexperienced beloved wife with owing much!

Wow! I didn’t think that it would get so long! Anyhow, thank you for your patience, and I think you will need it more if you like because, after this, I have much to tell about our life; it goes more dramatically 🙂 Have a wonderful weekend 💖

There’s all said in the continual; 🙏💖

Sharing My Love of Symbols symbolreader

Reading The Red Book (4)

by; https://symbolreader.net/

Excellent! 👍