Where did reason understand the way of longing for love

Returning to reason to the riddle of love

Years ago, I had a quality and capable friend named "Qudrat" who happened to be from the same neighborhood. I first met him during my military service and while secretly smoking cigarettes behind the logistics barracks. One of Qudrat's unique features was that when he spoke, all his body parts would become his language. Especially when he recounted a memory or an event, his entire face, arms, legs, and other parts would move with his language, in such a way that if you cut off his voice and just saw his image, you would completely understand what he was talking about. Now, add to these rhythmic movements, his short stature, his slender body, and the literature that can only be found in the depths of Tehran, and it will be easier for you to imagine this amazing creature.

In 1997, in the middle of my military service, I traveled with Ghaddar - who was a second lieutenant and had become one of my closest friends at the time - to Mashhad. On the last day of the mission, I had the opportunity to visit the shrine of Imam Reza. We entered from the old courtyard and slowly walked along the path with the crowd until we reached the bright shrine. We stood together less than four or five meters away from the shrine and paid our respects when Ghaddar started making excuses like children, saying that otherwise I would have to go over there and touch the shrine.

I said to Ghaddar: "Oh, Gulab, are you playing hide-and-seek with Imam Reza? You thought that if you don't go over there and touch the shrine and don't say anything, they won't accept you! The important thing is that you are present in this heavenly space and you are so close that you are paying your respects and breathing in this atmosphere. Now, what difference does it make if you are a few meters further or further away! From where you stand, say whatever you want, I will listen, Mr. Sami and Raufeh.

Qodrat also replied to me:
It is true that I am a child of Tehran and grew up in the Shahbaz area, but our ancestors were from the clans of Aligudarz who came to Tehran during the Constitutional era. In our belief, when we come for a pilgrimage, if we do not go ahead and touch the shrine, our pilgrimage is not accepted. I do not know about these card games that you are talking about. I, with this sniper body and all these arrows and shrapnel in my body, cannot go and mix with the crowd. Instead of standing next to me and shooting for free, go and open a way for me, maybe I can reach the shrine!

My heart ached for him and I tried for a few minutes to maybe make a way for him through the crowd, but I did not succeed and I passed him by. I forcibly pulled Qodrat out from under the crowd and took him out of the porches.

We put on our shoes in the courtyard of freedom and the power lit a cigarette and stood facing the dome and began to mutter under his breath and complain to the Imam. At that moment, I saw something at the end of the courtyard and my eyes and heart stared at the image and a spark was created in my mind.

I went to the power and said:
If you admit right now that your pain is not from bullets and shrapnel, but that you are suffering from Mongolianism, maybe I can do something for you to achieve your goal.
The power returned to the usual tongue-tied nightingale habit of cursing me, but suddenly his voice trembled and he swallowed his words and his tone changed and he said with resentment:

Yes, you are right. Now I have come to the exact conclusion that I am truly Mongolian. A person who is still walking upright with all these wounds and injuries, a person who sleeps with his most devoted comrades in the Martyrs' Garden of Zahra, a person who comes all this way from Tehran and after a week can only come to Mashhad once for a visit and even then he can't reach the shrine, is definitely behind. If I don't suffer from Mengelism, then what is it!?

I wiped away his tears and took his hand and led him to the end of the courtyard, the same view that had attracted his attention, hoping to untie the knot for him.

A number of patients from a mental hospital had come for a visit for the purpose of seeking help and healing, and they were in an orderly line with several doctors and caregivers and accompanied by several servants of the shrine, moving towards the porches and finally the shrine.

I took Qudrat to the side of the line and said:
Just get in this line and describe and do the same movements that you do when you tell me your memories.

Qudrat, who was a smart person himself and would say "F" to Farahzad, suddenly his eyes lit up and he understood what I meant and jumped into the line and started talking to himself. I also went and took the wheelchair handle of one of the patients who was struggling to move and joined the line under the pretext of helping.

With the guidance of the servants and the cooperation of the people and thanks to the presence of the beautiful angels who were in the line, the most closed roads were opened and all obstacles were removed and Qudrat managed to overcome his madness with a simple confession of madness and one of the sweetest memories of the trip to Mashhad and the Razavi Shrine was made for him and me.