I say to him:
Hajj Mahmud, what are you doing? You've been up since dawn like everyone else, you've set up scaffolding, pulled ropes, started the diesel generator, checked the wiring of the moon lamps and... Now it's almost 2 am, the celebration has long been over, everyone has gone to sleep and rest, and the local children, or as you call them, "the children of the Mid-Shaban celebration staff," who can't stand up anymore, are going to hug their quilts and mattresses. It's true that this place doesn't have proper security, but it's never been a case of neighborhood thieves stealing lamps and moon lamps from the Mid-Shaban celebration and taking them to their homes, there's no need for a guard, why don't you go and rest a little too!?
He says:
First of all, Haji is your father, secondly, what do you know about what's going on from now on! Thirdly, he didn't even bother you, you're sleepy, so go back and tell me what you're doing.
Then he pauses for a few moments and with a special smile and a tone that seems to be flattering himself
he says:
You thought love and happiness were only for you! I'm going out with my girlfriend tonight too
I say:
Haji, don't date and play around, and these things are for us young people who have been dressing up since the early hours of the morning and wasted a lot of time and energy on the local girls, what else are you saying, old man, besides, your Hajj Khanum's eyes are bright.
Suddenly, he gathers the abaya he took from the mosque and threw over his shoulder around himself, raises his walking stick and follows me... And wait, my father, let me tell you...
After repeated arguments with Hajj Mahmoud, I go home, turn on the kettle to drink some tea before bed and relieve my fatigue, but I remember the cold outside and Hajj Mahmoud, I decide to prepare a flask of tea instead of a cup and go back to Hajj Mahmoud.
Silence reigns in the entire neighborhood. Only the sound of the contact kit dancing the lights of the Nusrat Arch can be heard. Haj Mahmoud pulls his abaya over his head and walks down the street to the south. I call him, we sit together on the platform of a shop and he gets excited about telling memories of the war and his youth. He talks about Sardasht, about the wild white horse he found in the plains and tamed by him, about the smoke and blood and mortars and severed heads and... He talks and talks and talks...
- I really forgot, Haji! I brought tea so we could have it together.
- So where's the sugar!?
- Oh, dad, I forgot, I'm going to go get it from home now
I'll come back with sugar. Haji is praying on the sidewalk with a handful of qunut and a handful of rosary beads. I wait...
- Well, okay, Haji, should I pour some tea or not!?
- Pour it, dad, you've also killed yourself with this tea you're going to give us tonight.
- Oh, my God, what should I pour you? I didn't bring a glass!
I go home again and come back with a glass. This time Haji's complexion has turned pale, his eyes are wet and red, and he is staring at the south side of the street. His robe smells of a special perfume, unlike any of the perfumes and colognes I have known to this day.
I say:
How are you Haji!? What's up!? Did you come!? Did you have a good time?
He says:
He came, why did you come?
Then he whispers: "Whenever he can get to you, he can have a drink / if he can't, then be patient."
Suddenly he turns his eyes to me, furrows his eyebrows, and
says:
You pour your tea and don't be any more nosy, just be careful if you say anything to Haji Khanum.

Ten years have passed since that night, and once again it is the night of the middle of Shaban, and in the middle of the night I am sitting on the same platform with a flask of tea next to the local children, reviewing and reliving memories.
May your soul rest in peace, Haj Mahmoud. In these ten years since you left us, everyone remembers you only as a simple electrical worker in the celebration and lighting of the local Mid-Shaban, but only I know what a smart guy you were. I wish you would have taught me a little about the ways and customs of love instead of neutrals and phases and the ways and customs of wiring...

Mid-Shaban 1391 Tehran