tears as I cried. When he died … at the grove … all alone … I knew he was dead, but I held him, my six-year-old, and ran to Sardazak. If I hadn’t lost him, I wouldn’t be obsessed with veils and religious modesty now, nor with opium and convulsing at the mere thought of not getting any.
I rushed to my father’s house. He and Soudabeh were sitting in the room with the sash windows next to this very brazier. Grief-stricken , I wished I could breathe out fire and turn everyone around me into ashes. Soudabeh stood up and took my child from me. She was shaken, but trying hard not to show it. What a woman! She went out and came back without the child. I asked her what she had done with him. She said, “Who knows, maybe my brother, Mohammad Hossein, can bring him back to life with his healing touch.” I said, “Don’t blaspheme, woman! Only God brings to life. It says in the Quran: I breathed life unto him of My Spirit.” But Soudabeh wanted to give me hope.
I had studied Arabic and Persian with my father, and geography and geometry with Mohammad Hossein, Soudabeh’s brother. When my father came back from Tehran after completing his religious training, he shut himself up at home. He didn’t go out to lead prayers anymore. He was forced to give up teaching at the Khan seminary too. He only taught at home, in the main room withthe sash windows. Men would come in, kiss his hand and bring him questions on jurisprudence or theology. I used to sit in the next room and listen. When my father returned from his pilgrimage to holy Najaf, everyone in town went all the way on foot to Baj Gah to welcome him. That first day he led the communal prayers, and all the mullahs in town—even the Imam Juma—followed him as a mark of respect. When he spoke at the Vakil Mosque there was a packed audience.
Oh Lord! And I was quite a woman in those days too! I remember being daring enough to carry my father’s secret anti-government letters in my bosom to the Shah Cheraq shrine where I would deliver them to someone waiting there. I can remember it as if it were yesterday … the meeting place used to be between the two lion statues at the front of the shrine.
Then my father, of all people, fell for an Indian dancer. Mohammad Hossein and his sister Soudabeh had recently arrived from India. Despite my father’s courtship, to the last Soudabeh refused to marry him. She used to say they were better off the way they were. Of course she broke up our home and caused Bibi, my mother, no end of grief. But what a woman she was! And what a dancer! I’ll never forget the day my father asked Soudabeh to dance for his guests at the Rashk Behesht Gardens. She wasn’t really pretty, quite short and very sallow. She had a dark beauty spot on her upper lip, and used to outline her large brown eyes with a lot of kohl. When she wasn’t laughing she looked like an owl, but when she smiled it was as if the heavens had opened.
At that gathering, everyone—men and women—stood around the paving of the garden to watch her dance and to clap. I’d never seen her perform before. It was certainly out of the ordinary. She seemed naked at first glance, except for a few bits of jewellery. But in fact she was wearing a jewel-studded brassiere and a flesh-coloured body-stocking. She managed to move each and every part of her body: not only her shoulders, belly, eyes and eyebrows, but even her chin, nose, ears and pupils. First, she pretended to do a ritual dance over the corpse of a man. For the second dance, she wore a blue silk dress with a gold border, and had two live doves with dyed feathers perched on her breasts. She moved slowly and gently, as if afraid of disturbing the birds. When the dance was over, she let them fly away. By the end of the third dance, she was looking hot and flushed, so she went and sat by the pool, dressed inher pink satin dress. As she dipped her bare feet in the water, I saw my father, my Haj Agha—the high clergyman of the
I rushed to my father’s house. He and Soudabeh were sitting in the room with the sash windows next to this very brazier. Grief-stricken , I wished I could breathe out fire and turn everyone around me into ashes. Soudabeh stood up and took my child from me. She was shaken, but trying hard not to show it. What a woman! She went out and came back without the child. I asked her what she had done with him. She said, “Who knows, maybe my brother, Mohammad Hossein, can bring him back to life with his healing touch.” I said, “Don’t blaspheme, woman! Only God brings to life. It says in the Quran: I breathed life unto him of My Spirit.” But Soudabeh wanted to give me hope.
I had studied Arabic and Persian with my father, and geography and geometry with Mohammad Hossein, Soudabeh’s brother. When my father came back from Tehran after completing his religious training, he shut himself up at home. He didn’t go out to lead prayers anymore. He was forced to give up teaching at the Khan seminary too. He only taught at home, in the main room withthe sash windows. Men would come in, kiss his hand and bring him questions on jurisprudence or theology. I used to sit in the next room and listen. When my father returned from his pilgrimage to holy Najaf, everyone in town went all the way on foot to Baj Gah to welcome him. That first day he led the communal prayers, and all the mullahs in town—even the Imam Juma—followed him as a mark of respect. When he spoke at the Vakil Mosque there was a packed audience.
Oh Lord! And I was quite a woman in those days too! I remember being daring enough to carry my father’s secret anti-government letters in my bosom to the Shah Cheraq shrine where I would deliver them to someone waiting there. I can remember it as if it were yesterday … the meeting place used to be between the two lion statues at the front of the shrine.
Then my father, of all people, fell for an Indian dancer. Mohammad Hossein and his sister Soudabeh had recently arrived from India. Despite my father’s courtship, to the last Soudabeh refused to marry him. She used to say they were better off the way they were. Of course she broke up our home and caused Bibi, my mother, no end of grief. But what a woman she was! And what a dancer! I’ll never forget the day my father asked Soudabeh to dance for his guests at the Rashk Behesht Gardens. She wasn’t really pretty, quite short and very sallow. She had a dark beauty spot on her upper lip, and used to outline her large brown eyes with a lot of kohl. When she wasn’t laughing she looked like an owl, but when she smiled it was as if the heavens had opened.
At that gathering, everyone—men and women—stood around the paving of the garden to watch her dance and to clap. I’d never seen her perform before. It was certainly out of the ordinary. She seemed naked at first glance, except for a few bits of jewellery. But in fact she was wearing a jewel-studded brassiere and a flesh-coloured body-stocking. She managed to move each and every part of her body: not only her shoulders, belly, eyes and eyebrows, but even her chin, nose, ears and pupils. First, she pretended to do a ritual dance over the corpse of a man. For the second dance, she wore a blue silk dress with a gold border, and had two live doves with dyed feathers perched on her breasts. She moved slowly and gently, as if afraid of disturbing the birds. When the dance was over, she let them fly away. By the end of the third dance, she was looking hot and flushed, so she went and sat by the pool, dressed inher pink satin dress. As she dipped her bare feet in the water, I saw my father, my Haj Agha—the high clergyman of the
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