clothes. Nobody saw Mastan there. Nobody expressed
any opinion about his behavior there or asked additional things.
And this was worth the entire world to him.

This study where Mastan was happily breathing every day was the
manager's office of the dormitory of a technical school. And
Mastan was the "owner" of this office; that is, he
was the manager of the dormitory. He did his job very well. Sometimes,
he would even write poems.

At home, Mastan never dared to write a poem because, once, on
a day off while he was sitting on the sofa, Mastan had drawn
a picture just for fun and this caused great trouble. Two hours
later, all the building had learned about it. The phone calls
started. One was congratulating him, another was making fun of
his new hobby, and others were asking whathe had drawn.

Afterwards Mastan was very careful about such things. Now whenever
Mastan wanted to draw a picture or read a book, he would go to
the bathroom. Even there, he couldn't sit for a long time. All
the building would say to each other: "What happened to
Mastan?" "Is he having a stomach ache?" "Maybe
he caught cold?"

Mastan had moved into this building the day he married. They
had been living under the same roof for 16 years already. They
had a son who was 15. But still they were treating each other
very modestly just like when they got engaged. They couldn't
tell each other what was really in their hearts; they even had
to hide their anger inside. It wasn't a joke, they were living
together with 400 people, and they couldn't say and do what