Story world: Love.

- The splendor of the story of the world's best creators...

- Original Creator : Anton Chekhov Presentation : Paresh Vyas

- After anxiously waiting for his grace, the bile escaping my brain, I left the house and started walking down the street with my newly purchased stick.

She sat facing me and her lips started moving.. I looked at her forehead and then looked at her moving lips and then I got lost in thought.

Last year, it was 100 years since 'Varta' was first created in Gujarati language. On this occasion, a unique celebration was held by publishing classic stories of famous writers of Gujarat in 'Gujarat Samachar'. This treasure of Gujarati stories received a warm response from the readers. Then now presents to the readers of 'Gujarat Samachar'-a magnificence of the works of the world's foremost storytellers...

(Story: A man falls in love with a girl. Oh! What's new in that? Nothing! The girl's name is Sasha. The man is a linguist, his ideas about love are like poetry, but Sasha is a simple straightforward girl. The girl likes him. She offers to come home but she doesn't know that her house is such an unromantic place because there are many people in the house, how can she talk about love in their presence? The lovers should meet somewhere else. According to the husband's suggestion, they meet in the garden. , but in that meeting, the girl did not seem to be absorbing the romantic gestures of the hero of the story with interest. The hero feels that if there was another man in her place, the girl would have reacted the same way! Then the girl comes to his house on the invitation of the man, but there too. The girl is not interested in the protagonist's talk of planning their future marital symbiosis. The two then get engaged, but the protagonist believes that the engagement is a very dry and dull situation. He believes that either the man should become a husband quickly or leave altogether. .Not every engaged man belongs here , not yours! It cannot be said that he has left one side of the river and has not yet reached the other side, that he is not married and yet he is single. There are poetic ideas of love for the hero but for the heroine of the story in the words of Mariz Saheb.. I loved her in a very simple way, not knowing that there should be art in it- such a state. Now the third and final part of this love story of two characters with different nature is presented.

Part-3

As soon as I got the same time every day, I was always eager to meet my fiance in a hurry. Whenever he went, I used to meet him with many hopes, many wishes, many intentions, suggestions and phrases in my mind. My imagination, my conception, my thoughts were as if the maid had entered the house as soon as she had opened the door, and I was drowned in the feeling of being pressed up to the neck and absorbed, and suddenly I felt as if I were now in a sea of ​​happy waves. I'm diving. But in reality it was always the opposite. Every time I met my fiancee, her family and other members were engaged in discussions about the bride's dress or the wedding dowry, which I did not care about. (And let it be said that all of them had been working hard for the last two months to sew the dress and buy other ornaments, and even then they had managed to collect only a hundred rubles worth of accessories.) In her house there was an iron. And the smell of candle wax and musty smoke. Tube shaped glass beads sewn on the dress as an ornament would be crushed underfoot. The two largest rooms were filled with piles of linen, cotton cloth, and muslin, and from among the piles could be seen the head of Sasha, flossing his teeth. When I appeared, a group of tailors would greet me heartily with shouts of joy, and then immediately lead me into the dining-room, where I could neither restrain myself, nor see what only a husband was permitted to see. I had to sit in the dining-room between the emotions that were welling up inside me and had to talk in vain with Pimenova, a distant relative of Sasha's. Sasha used to get excited seeing me, she used to worry about me and used to come back and forth with a tailor's finger, a loop of wool and some such boring thing on her finger.

'Just wait, I'll be here in a minute,' she would say as I rolled my pleading eyes at her. 'I think that useless Stepanida must have killed something in a silk woolen gown!'

After anxiously waiting for a glimpse of her, the bile escaping my brain, I left the house and started walking down the street with my newly purchased stick. It was like I wanted to go for a walk or a long drive with my fiancé. Although I returned, she was standing in the living room with her mother, playing with her little umbrella, getting ready to go out.

'Oh, we're going to the market,' he said. 'We have to get soft woolen cloth and this hat to be changed too.'

It was in my mind that I wanted to go out and that's why I also joined the women's bazaargaman program. Watching and listening to women shopping, haggling over prices, trying to outsmart the clever shopkeepers is all very distressing and exhausting. I didn't like it, I was ashamed when Sasha piled things up to the shopkeeper, made a minimum price, and then left the shop without buying anything, and the reason was that she had bargained with the shopkeeper to reduce the price by half a ruble. The shopkeeper did not bow down so she walked out.

After coming out of the shop, Sasha and Anne, with worried and irritated faces, discussed at length the mistakes they had made in other purchases, that they had made the wrong purchase, that the flowers printed on the fabric were too dark, and so on. Matters continued to be discussed.

Yes, being engaged is boring! Glad that time has passed.

Now I am married. It is evening. I am studying a book while sitting in my study room. Sitting behind me on the sofa, my wife Sesha is chewing something crumbly. I want a glass of beer.

'Sasha, if the script to uncork the bottle has fallen somewhere..' I said. 'It must have fallen here somewhere.' Sasha got up, scattered two or three piles of papers quite haphazardly, tumbled down the box of divasli but did not find the butchscrew. After that she sat quietly.. Five minutes passed.. then ten.. both thirst and irritation started my nausea.

'Sasha, where's Joe and Butchsk..' I said.

Sasha stood up again. Again he rummaged through the papers lying near me. The sound of something crunching in competition with the rustling of papers - the two sounds seemed to be rowing against each other. Finally got it and with its help I opened the bottle of beer. Sasha sat at the table and then began to tell something in great detail.

'You'd better read something, Sasha,' I said.

She took the book and sat facing me and her lips moved.. I looked at her small forehead and then at her moving lips and then I was lost in thought.

'She's still going to be twenty..' I kept thinking. 'What would an educated boy of his age see when one compares Sasha with him? See how much is different, how much is the difference between the two! A boy has knowledge, a strong opinion and some intelligence.

But I forgive this difference, and the same way I forgive her drooping forehead and pursed lips. I remember my old lovelash* days, when I used to dismiss women whose knee-length socks had a stain on them, or who uttered a stupid word, or whose teeth weren't properly cleaned, and now .. I forgive everything: his munching, all his scrambling to find a butch, and his babbling, his long talks that didn't matter at all. And then, almost unconsciously, I forgive her for everything, so easily, without any effort—as if Sesha's mistakes were my own mistakes, and there were so many things that hurt me before. It used to give me pain, but now I find it sad, even though the same things sometimes make me happy, give me joy. Why is this happening?- If I have to explain or if I have to say any reason behind my gesture of forgiving her for everything, I really don't know how to explain to anyone the meaning of unconditional love for Sasha, but self-love. not

(finish)