Mahpali was lying in her home, her face pressed against the floor mat, leaving an imprint on her cheek. She was bewildered, thinking, “Is this the reward for my entire life? Is this the result of my love? Who was I that you did this to me? You left me with nothing. My love, my loyalty, my sacrifices, my nightly memories—all rewarded with three divorce statements. Was our bond so fragile that it ended with just three words? How can I believe that you abandoned me? How can I calm myself knowing you left me like this? How can I forget the months and years we spent together? The sweet taste of the wedding night’s milk is still in my mouth! How could you turn my sweetness into bitterness? How could you leave a scar on the face you never tired of describing? You’ve blemished my reputation in society! How can I face you when you know my inner and outer states? Oh God, what should I do?” She sighed heavily, her heart full of sorrow. Tired of lying on her stomach, she lay on her back, her face red from crying and the imprint of the mat still on her cheeks and nose. Her eyes fell on the wooden beams of the ceiling, where a chameleon was moving from one hole to another. She thought, “This hole is the home of the chameleon, but where is my home? The chameleon doesn’t stay in one hole even for a moment, but I have spent ten years here… How can I leave the home where I’ve spent my life?” Of course, I have to leave, but who will raise my children? Oh mother, my children must live without their father. Oh father! I am lost, my children will be separated. In their father’s life, they are now orphans.”
When she was tired of lying down, she sat up and leaned against the wall. She saw the dress she was sewing for the Eid and held it against her chest, saying, “Who should I wear this for now? My time is over, yes! Ten years of love and loyalty ended with three divorce statements. Couldn’t my love and affection stop this? Couldn’t my ten years with you prevent this? How could you say to me, ‘Leave, you are like my mother and sister now’?”
Outside the house, her husband Ghulam Bejar had his hands on his head, lying face down, bewildered, thinking, “What have I done? I have never been so out of control to do such a thing, but it happened! Spit fell to the ground, what can I do to become my old self again?” He thought, “Who can I consult with? No one knows about my actions.” He said to himself, “Yes, there is one way: if Mahpali accepts, then my life will continue and my children will not be left alone.” Ghulam Bejar thought, “This is the consequence of my actions, I am dishonouring myself, but I have to do it.”
The actions of Mahpali and Shah Beht were not hidden; they were so immersed in their friendship that they would splash water on each other and drink together. If they did not see each other for an hour, time would not pass for them. They were also cousins and lived in the same place.
They studied the Quran together with the Mullah, played together, and even went to the fields with the cows together—this was the story of their childhood. Months and years passed, Mahpali reached puberty, and Shah Beht also grew up. Shah Beht was a tall person with a long nose and a dusky complexion that made many hearts flutter, while Mahpali was a round-faced, fair-skinned girl. Their childhood had ended, and they were transitioning into adolescence. This was an important period, and Mahpali’s mother was teaching her all the affairs of life, sharing the ups and downs, but it was too late—the seed of love had already been planted between the two.
Mahpali did not know when the sparks of love from Shah Beht would ignite. In truth, this fire burned within both of them, but the Baluch sense of honour did not allow them to express their feelings. Their hearts were not at fault for the misery that gripped them, and people searched for Mahpali, thinking she was lost. They had not informed each other of what was in their hearts. Shah Beht, being Mahpali’s cousin, frequented their house, but they never crossed the line. Shah Beht was certain in his heart that his uncle would accept him as his son-in-law, but fate has its own plans; it takes grooms from the wedding seat and brides from the bridal chamber.
It is said that if someone is unlucky, even a dog will bite him from the camel’s back. In this case, Shah Beht’s luck was so poor that even a dog had bitten him off the camel. Fate had shown its face to them, and despite everything, they remained silent about what had happened. Mahpali lowered her head, and Shah Beht tried to console his heart. His heart was filled with youthful passion, but his sense of honour and dignity had bowed his head. Above all, the honour and dignity of his uncle and cousin were more important to him than anything else. They both witnessed and endured the customs and traditions of their time.