Tamij Saheb's press. Shamsu lays his hands on the lead type. Shamsu strings words together. Words of sorrow. Words of joy. Countless words. A procession of words in the palm of Shamsu's hand. Shamsu grips the words by their throats.
Sometimes Shamsu feels he is a king now. He wants to revel in play with these words; yet his sorrow...the words are not under his control. His fingers move from one word to touch another word's throat, but the fingers cannot stay still. Shamsu's fingers cannot establish complete dominion over the words. Sometimes the words simply won't come up! Stubborn as lead. And so compositor Shamsu's heart is heavy with sorrow.
In truth, he can control nothing. Just as Shamsu grieves, he could not gain control over Rashida either. Dark-skinned Rashida showed Shamsu the light. Awakened dreams of building a small home together. The black lead type sometimes becomes Rashida's body to Shamsu. As if Rashida rests her body upon the type case. Shamsu makes mistakes stringing his words together.
Shamsu hears words.
: When will you come?
: Let me save some money, then I'll come.
: Father's getting restless about getting me married.
: Let him be restless. I'll break it up.
: How?
: I'll send a letter saying Rashida is already married.
: No, no, don't say that. Father will kill me.
: Oh, I see. You don't want me.
: What are you saying! I can't live without you.
Rashida hides her face in Shamsu's chest. "My fate holds nothing but sorrow." Rashida weeps.
Shamsu makes mistakes stringing words together. Tamij Saheb's impatience arrives. "What's this, Shamsu Mian, have you given up work to become a poet?"
Shamsu stirs and sits up straight. In his type case there is no body of Rashida. No words at all. Shamsu's fingers grip the lead words by their throats.