مسابقه انشای ایرون
يك پيچك
نویسنده: آزیتا مخلص به «زن رشتی»
25 آذر 1381
2002, 12 December
يه پيچكی بود كه يه روز تو باغ عالم، سر از خاك درآورد. كنارش يه درخت بود، اونم معطل نكرد و به دورش پيچيد. بعدها از سنجاقكها شنيده بود كه اين درخت اسمش زندگی است. سنجاقكها هميشه ترس از سنجاق شدن به ديوارها را داشتند و پيچك نمیدانست ديوار يعنی چی، چون مرتب قد میكشيد.
يه روز بارون اومد. يه بارون و باد تند كه نزديك بود ريشهی پيچكه رو از خاك در بياره. پيچكه حالا حساب كارش رو كرده بود. پس بيشتر به زندگی پيچيد. حالا همهی فكر و ذكر پيچكه اين بود كه سفتتر و سختتر به درخت بپيچه و درخت كه عاقلتر از پيچكه بود تو دلش به پيچك می خنديد. اما چيزی نگفت. با خودش فكر كرد: يه روز پيچكه میفهمه.
حالا پيچكه يه سر و گردن از درختای جوان باغ بلندتر شده بود و بادی به غبغب میانداخت. درختها با دلسوزی و نگرانی نگاهش میكردند و پيچكه اين رو نمیفهميد. فكر میكرد اونا حسوديشون شده كه هيچی نشده قدش از همه بلندتر شده.
يه روزی پيچكه كه حالا قدش از ديوار باغ هم بلندتر شده بود، آنور باغ چشمش به يه پيچك ديگه عين خودش افتاد. پيچك يه طورايی شده بود. هی دلش میخواست پيچك آنور باغ رو ببينه. گاهی هم شبا خواب میديد، پيچك آنور باغ رو كنار خودش كاشتن و با همه ديگه به درخت زندگی پيچيدهان، پيچكه خيلی حس خوبی داشت و فكر میكرد اين حسش بهترين حس دنياست.
تا اينكه يه روز صبح كه از خواب بيدار شد و به آنور باغ نگاه كرد ديد از پيچكه خبری نيست. بعدها از پرستوها شنيده بود كه باغبان به خاطر آفت پيچك آن ور باغ، اون رو از بيخ و بن كنده. خلاصه دل پيچكه خيلی شكست. اما چارهای نبود. حالا پيچكه خيلی غمگين بود و روزها و شبا كارش اين شده بود كه به آسمون نگاه كنه. شبا ستارهها بهش میگفتن غصه نخور دل به ما بسپار، ببين ما چطور سو سو میزنيم؟ اما يه روز يه شهاب كه داشت رد میشد دلش به حال پيچكه سوخت. گفت به حرف اينا گوش نكن. من شنيدم كه يه پيچك وقتی پيچكه كه دل به خورشيد بده. تو دلت رو به خورشيد بسپار.
پيچكه پرسيد: خورشيد ديگه چيه؟ خورشيد ديگه كيه؟ شهاب كه ديگه داشت خاموش میشد: گفت از درختی كه بهش پيچيدی بپرس. پيچكه طاقت نداشت میخواست از درختی كه به آن پيچيده بود بپرسه. اما درخته خواب بود. خلاصه پيچكه تمام شب رو بيدار موند. صبح كه درخت از خواب بيدار شد. ديد پيچكه زل زده بهش.
درخت خنديد و گفت: اين وقت صبح چرا اينطور به من زل زدی؟
پيچك پرسيد: تو میدونی خورشيد چيه ؟ راستی اون كجاست؟
خنده درخت از لباش پريد و رفت. حالا نگاهش مهربانتر شده بود و با يه حالتی به پيچكه نگاه میكرد كه پيچكه خجالت كشيد. درخته گفت: خیلی وقته منتظر اين سوال توام. میترسيدم هيچوقت از من نپرسیاش.
- چرا میترسيدی كه نپرسم؟
- چون آن وقت اگر نپرسيده، يك روز خورشيد رو میديدی، خيلی بد میشد. ممكن بود هول كنی، يا بترسی و يا زبونت بند بياد و ديگه قد نكشی و يا حتی باهاش دشمنی كنی و خيلی چيزای ديگه.
آن وقت درخته گفت: میدونی همهی پيچكای عالم به يه درخت آن قدر میپيچن كه به انتهای اون درخت میرسن. يه روز میرسه كه اونا میخوان از درختی هم كه به دورش پيچيدهان بلندتر شن. آن وقت ديگه درخت نمیتونه بهشون كمك كنه. و اونا برای اينكه راهشونو گم نكنن بايد دل به خورشيد بسپارن.
پيچكه گفت: اين كه خيلی خوبه.
آنوقت درخته كه مغمومانه به پبچك نگاه میكرد گفت: آره بد نيست. ولی نور زياد خورشيد چشماتو كور میكنه. باعث میشه كه ديگه جز اون هيچچی رو نبينی. نه اين باغ رو نه من رو و نه حتی خودت رو. بعد كم كم ذهنت از همه چيز خالی میشه. رنگ و روتم عين خورشيد زرد میشه.
پيچكه ته دلش لرزيد، آخه اون به باغ، به درخت و به همهی دور و برش عادت داشت. همشونو دوست داشت. ولی انگار چارهای نبود. پيچك هر روز بلندتر و بلندتر میشد تا اين كه يه روز به آخرين برگای درخت رسيد. درخت كه اشك تو چشمش جمع شده بود، با برگاش صورت پيچك رو بوسيد و گفت:
- دلم خيلی برات تنگ میشه.
پيچكه كه سعی میكرد لبخند بزنه گفت: ديشب چند تا از دونههام رو، روی خاك ريختم كه بعد من زياد تنها نشی. مواظبشون باش.
درخته گفت: باشه، برو، غصه اونا رو نخور. دلم برات تنگ میشه. بعد همديگه رو بغل كردن و باز بوسيدن.
پيچكه خودش رو جمع و جور كرد و برای آخرين بار يه نگاهی به باغ انداخت و بعد سرشو بلند كرد و آن وقت بود كه به خورشيد دل داد.
This story "yek pichak" is very dear to me in a unique way. In 2002, I accidentally discovered the Iranian youth community on the Internet -- yes, in Iran
For Iranians abroad and especially for my generation, which is designated as the first generation of Iranians on the Internet, everything on the Web starts from the web site of "The Iranian." So here I was. I knew JJ from the day he launched his web site. I knew he was Abadani like me, but we really never sat down to talk about Abadan. One night I visited JJ's web site and before I knew it, I found myself in the online world of the Iranian youth. They were "blogging." Up to that moment, I had no idea what a blog or weblog was, let alone its act was called blogging, or in Farsi the youth used to say "blagidan." In this virtual world I had found out about hundreds of Iranian youth, who were blogging in order to express themselves. They were saying things they were not allowed to say in their own homeland. I had accidentally found myself in the epicenter of a powerful force. Power of words. Power of music. Power of communication. Power of sharing. All of which I had always been keen to. But, more paradoxical was the fact that I was virtually inside Iran.
It took me few weeks to realize that indeed I was inside Iran. The medium, the vehicle, was virtual alright, but the people were real. The issues were real. The pain, fear, laughter, and suspense were all real. It took me one month or so until I found the courage inside me to actually write to a small number of bloggers. They were kind. They would write back. They were thrilled to know somebody outside their circle of friends had discovered their weblogs and was reading their writings
One such blogger was writing under a title named "Zan-e Rashti." She presented herself as a woman who was born in city of Rasht but lived and worked in Tehran. Like most of other bloggers, she was in her upper 20s. She essentially wrote about her "rooz maregi." After a while, I noticed she wrote less frequently and that her posts sounded more like somebody was preparing for a good-bye or a long journey, but I did not pay much attention. After a few more weeks passed, her blog was no longer updated. Very soon active bloggers started asking what happened to Zan-e Rashti. It was exactly at this time that I took the time and wrote about her last post, which was this story of "pichak." What a poetic story. What did it mean, I asked myself.
Then came a post. A man who claimed he knew Zan-e Rashti (now he revealed her first name was Azita) wrote on her blog that she had passed away due to cancer. He wrote that in the last weeks she was trying to clean up her life and prepare herself for her journey. He said she did not want to talk about death on her weblog, because she loved life. Apparently, she was in remission and she was supposed to survive the cancer, but cancer had come back and this time she was not able to get rid of it. Some bloggers said there was no Zan-e Rashti; there was no Azita. They speculated that the man who was writing now had used Zan-e Rashti as an alias for himself. The man denied. One blogger who was from city of Rasht confirmed that there was indeed an Azita from city of Rasht. None of this mattered to me. I read the story of “yek pichak” again and now I understood what it was all about.
I stored the story in my PC. I edited it a little. I was afraid her weblog would be deleted soon, although the man said he was going to keep it active for the prosperity to see. Up until late 2003, the weblog was still viewable by the public. I edited the story in 2003, but Zan-e Rashti published it on her weblog in December 2002. I found the Iranian weblog community in October 2002
Even if I find out her name and everything about her is just an alias, I still believe in and appreciate the story of "yek pichak." I am inspired every time I read it. That is the reason I wanted to share it here.