Shazdehpoor shook his head in dismay.
“He was your mother’s great-grandfather, Madjid,” said Akbar-Agha. “You are the cleric’s great-great-grandchild.”
Madjid sat up straighter with pride—only then noticing Bibi-Khanoom and Ghamar coming down the orchard path. Mirza quickly collected the vodka glasses and bottle and scurried away to the kitchen. Ghamar stood with her hands on her hips and said, “I hope you have not made yourselves too tired.”
Mohammad stirred awake. She bent down and brought her face close to his, inhaling. “Astagfurallah! Shame on you! Go wash out your mouth.”
He lumbered to get to his feet, spinning slightly before getting his bearings.
Nasreen stood behind Akbar-Agha’s tree, impervious to her father’s humiliation. She watched Madjid, his smile, the glow of his dark eyes, his lanky arms resting on his thighs. Madjid turned to meet her gaze. He did not notice the tilt in her head or the new look in her eyes, nor did he realize that this made him want to be near her. He picked up a sugar cube and walked over to tell her the story, unaware that four years from this very moment, standing on the threshold of her father’s tailor shop, with that very same flash of hope in his eyes, he would ask for this girl’s hand in marriage.
THE PROPOSAL PARTY
Nasreen sat at her vanity examining her face from every angle. She had spent an hour applying makeup, half of which was spent on the mascara alone. A school friend had given her the precious tube, after pilfering it from her mother. It was Mary Kay, a pricey American import. Nasreen used it only on special occasions. She blinked in the mirror, pleased.
In the distance, her mother was calling. She rolled her eyes and smoothed down her new dress. Her father had made it for her, from iridescent cream-colored silk. The buttons were covered in gold lace and the matching shoes had kitten heels. She was as ready as she would ever be. She opened the bedroom door and stepped out into the living room.
Ghamar, perched on the couch in a navy chador, looked at her awestruck.
Stunned by her silence, Nasreen smiled.
“You look beautiful,” said her father.
Her mother nodded. Then without warning, straightened her shoulders and snapped out. “You’re wearing too much mascara. It’s unseemly.”
“The dress fits you very well,” her father said.
“It makes your hips look big,” said her mother. “And it’s tight around the chest.”
“The fabric falls gracefully.”
“You didn’t wear your girdle. Hold yourself in when you bring out the tea.”
Her father retreated into the kitchen. Her mother smiled, but Nasreen leaned over and whispered, “If you ruin his proposal for me, I will never forgive you.”
Ghamar had never seen this side of Nasreen before. It scared her a little. “I’m only trying to help.”
“Don’t you dare,” said Nasreen heading to the kitchen. The samovar was filled and steaming. Trays of sweets with rosewater and saffron-infused bamieh, honey-soaked baklava, and brittle saffron sohan lay arranged on the counter. Her father filled the sugar bowl with cubes and arranged tea glasses on a tray. Everything was ready. He smiled and said, “Don’t be upset. Your mother is just worried about you. You know how she gets.”
There was a knock at the front door. From the kitchen, Nasreen listened intently to her parents as they greeted Madjid and Shazdehpoor. Madjid spoke in short, polite sentences. She could tell he was nervous. He had combed his hair with water, and now it was trickling down his neck and temples. She remembered how he had once told her he loved each and every part of her body, especially her little pouch of stomach fat. She remembered how he once told her he would endure listening to Demis Roussos for her, as long as she danced for him. She began to sway around the kitchen table as she quietly sang “Lovely Lady of Arcadia” in perfectly pitched, flawlessly pronounced English, though she didn’t know the meaning of a single word.
Madjid sat on the couch next to his father, his hair stuck to his head as Nasreen had predicted, wet and perspiring. He hunched over his knees, his eyes darting from face to face as the adults discussed the unseasonably warm weather.
There was another knock on the door. Akbar-Agha, Bibi-Khanoom, Jafar, and the midwife all filed into the house and handed Mohammad boxes of intricately wrapped sweets. He ushered them into the living room and went into the kitchen with the sweets, startling Nasreen out of her dance. She caught a glimpse of Madjid on the couch. As their eyes met, the door swung shut, then swayed back and forth, slower and slower until it came to a stop. “Get the tea ready,” said her father. “I will come back when the time is right.”
Mohammad added the sweets to the appropriate trays and swung the door open again. Madjid was already engaged in conversation with Akbar-Agha, Nasreen saw, just as Jafar slipped into the kitchen. He stood there staring at the rows of bamieh, the honey glaze glistening on the perfectly round balls. She took one and handed it to him. He ate it in one bite and went back to staring at the trays, focusing on the baklava. She handed him a piece and he ate that in one bite also, licking the sticky honey and pistachio crumbs off of his fingers. Nasreen gave him a few pieces of the sohan, which he pocketed, then he slipped through the kitchen door. She was amazed that one so portly could move with such nimble agility, as though he were not even there.
In the living room, Madjid leaned into Akbar-Agha and spoke softly. “Have you seen today’s paper?”
“Yes. Of course.”
“A million people gathered in the streets.”
“I am not surprised. It was inevitable.”
“Do you think this is really it?”
“I’m not sure what ‘it’ is yet—but yes.”
Akbar-Agha remembered August 19, 1953. He was a young man, already a judge, not yet aware of the limits of the law under autocratic rule and overjoyed by the rise in power of the democratically elected prime minister, Dr. Mohammad Mossadegh—even after an attempted coup by foreign forces backing Mohammad Reza Shah Pahlavi.
That day, Akbar-Agha had walked the streets of his hometown and felt the electricity of a people awakened to the force of their own agency. Hundreds marched the streets chanting for the prime minister, “Long live Mossadegh! Long live Mossadegh! Long live Mossadegh!”
A few hours later another crowd angrily tore down those same streets chanting, “Death to Mossadegh! Death to Mossadegh! Death to Mossadegh!”
And just like that, the prime minister was silenced and put under house arrest. The foreign coup that he thought was thwarted had in fact succeeded.
Akbar-Agha looked into Madjid’s eyes and said, “Madjid, be careful.”
“I am careful. But we are so close to a true people’s republic.”
“Madjid, do not allow yourself to be swept away. Look with clear eyes. Fate changes on a whim.”
Madjid was surprised by Akbar-Agha’s cynicism. For him, the news of the uprising in the capital was a revelation. He wanted to be part of it. He wanted Nasreen to be part of it.
“It is quite an unseasonably warm spring,” said the midwife. “It’s usually much cooler going into the New Year.”
Ghamar agreed. “Last year at this time, it was much cooler. I’ve had to contend with terrible stomach pains, and that Armenian doctor keeps giving me charcoal pills and charges me a fortune for them. I keep asking him: Why charcoal pills? I have a stomachache from the warm weather. As if I would trust an Armenian.”
Everyone looked away, trying to suppress their laughter. Finally the midwife said gently, “Ghamar-jan, charcoal pills are not for a stomachache, they’re for flatu—”
“Why don’t we get started?” said Bibi-Khanoom. “I could really use a cup of tea.”
Mohammad cleared his throat and began by saying, “I would like to welcome you all to our home. We are all family and I think it is best to speak frankly about this union. Nasreen is a very intelligent and kind young woman. She has a great talent with her lace making and a future in tailoring. I plan on
leaving my business to her and have no doubt that she will flourish. She is an excellent cook and a pleasure to converse with. She is fair-minded, thoughtful, and sensitive. But she is our only child and her happiness is the most important thing for us. I personally believe she is too young to marry but she insists on it and so I support her decision.”
He turned his attention to Shazdehpoor. “I would like to discuss very seriously what your son’s plans are in terms of providing Nasreen with a home. The couple is welcome to stay with us as long as they wish, but at some point Madjid will have to provide for his wife. I understand that he will be attending the university in the fall but I wonder how he will be able to handle his studies as well as the responsibilities that come with marriage.”
Shazdehpoor now cleared his throat. “First let me say that it is a pleasure to be here and I thank you and Ghamar-Khanoom for your hospitality. Nasreen is like a daughter to me and I would be honored to have her as a daughter-in-law. I, too, feel that perhaps it is too soon for the marriage but Madjid also insists. It is true that he will be going to the university in the fall. I have a modest stipend from the government and a small fund from my wife’s dowry left from her too-short life that I have saved for just such an occasion. It is not enough to purchase them a home but it will provide an income while my son finishes his studies and takes on a profession. He and I have discussed his interests, and while he is inclined toward the fine arts, he has also shown quite an affinity for civil engineering, which is a useful and lucrative field.”
Bibi-Khanoom took a paper out of her purse and put it on the table. “Akbar-Agha and I would like to deed a small plot of land in our orchard to the bride and groom. They can build a home there. It is our wedding gift.”
The sweat on Madjid’s forehead turned cold. He unbuttoned the top of his shirt and tried to breathe. He did not recognize himself or Nasreen in anything his family said.
Mohammad walked into the kitchen to cue Nasreen to enter. She stood by the counter holding the tray with glasses and a bowl of sugar cubes, her face like a panicked rabbit, only its nose twitching. Her father reassured her. “It’s going quite well,” he said. “Bring the tea.”
He held the door for her. Slowly, she passed through, the glasses jingling. “He’s a very lucky man,” her father whispered.
The whole room turned to look at her. Nasreen stopped for a moment, her eyes landing on Madjid. He looked pale. His forehead was shiny. She walked around the couch and bent down to offer tea to the midwife first, then to each person. When she got to Madjid, he looked down her dress, catching a full glimpse of her bra. As he reached for his tea, he knocked it over, spilling the rest of the glasses all over her. She let out a yelp. He jumped up, causing her to drop the tray. Everyone scrambled to clean up the mess, Mohammad wielding a dishrag.
The midwife leaned into Bibi-Khanoom and whispered, “The things that a woman’s breasts can do to a man.”
They giggled under their chadors, until Mohammad said to Madjid, “I think it’s time for you and Nasreen to go to the den and keep company.”
Nasreen was standing at the sink, wiping her dress with a dishtowel.
“I’m so sorry,” he said.
She smiled. “It’s all right. I don’t mind.”
“They want us to get to know each other.”
Both of them broke into laughter but managed to nod to everyone as they crossed the living room and into the den. Nasreen opened the sliding doors, then hesitated. She had always avoided this room. It was where her parents fought.
Whenever that happened, she tried to hide in her father’s tailor shop. The counters were covered in rolls of colorful fabric, half-sewn garments, pattern paper, needle pillows, thread spools, and sewing machines. It was the happiest and sunniest room in the house, with its own entrance at the back of the house. Her mother avoided it, except when her husband had to take out her dresses. Year after year, Nasreen had watched her mother stand on the fitting stool while her father bent over with his pinking sheers and measuring tape.
Ghamar loathed him for his low station in life. But she loathed him even more for his passiveness. Neither of which he seemed to notice. “These cotton fabrics are a mystery,” he said over and over. “You wash them a few times and they shrink.”
The kinder he was to her about her waistline, the more she seethed until she literally and metaphorically burst at the seams, letting out a screed of vitriol. “My aunt married a judge. My sisters married doctors and engineers that whisked them off to the capital, and I am left here pinned to a seamstress.”
“I know you’re upset about the dress,” he said, showing no reaction. “I’ll fix it right away.”
This only made her angrier. “The dress did not shrink, you fool. I am fat and getting fatter and it’s all your fault. Always stuffing me like a floor pillow.” She stomped out of the shop and into the den, her husband following her.
Through the walls of the house, Nasreen could hear her mother screaming and beating on her father. She sat on the floor, rocking back and forth, frightened and waiting for her mother to finally burst into tears and slap him across the face. Only then did she fall into his arms, remorseful. Mohammad never hit back. He only held Ghamar until she calmed down and lay in his arms breathing heavily. After a fight was the only time they were affectionate.
Was it possible that her marriage would turn out the same? Nasreen stood in the doorway of the den. Two chairs had been arranged in the center of the room. Madjid closed the sliding doors behind him. He came over. He put his arms around her, his chin on her head. They stood there in silence for some time before she said, “Promise me that we will always speak openly to each other about our problems. Promise me that and I will endure any hardship with you.”
“I promise,” he whispered.
She let out a sigh of relief. “You look so pale,” she said and sat in her chair.
“I feel sick. This whole thing is just awful.”
“It’s tradition.”
“It’s barbaric.”
Madjid leaned forward and furrowed his brows like Mohammad, saying in a deep voice, “Our daughter is an excellent cook and fine conversationalist. She also has supple breasts, child-bearing hips, a full set of teeth, and comes with livestock.”
Nasreen started laughing. “He did not say supple breasts!”
“I added that.”
“And a full set of teeth?”
“You have very good teeth.”
“So you’re marrying me for my teeth?”
“Oh no. I’m marrying you for the breasts.”
“You are so wicked.”
“San Francisco.”
“Stop it!”
“Did you know that you’re going to become a lace maker and take over your father’s shop? And I am going to be a civil engineer. Also, we will be building a house in the orchard.”
“What?”
“It’s like we’re invisible to them.”
“I’m used to that,” said Nasreen. A tear formed in the corner of her eye.
Madjid reached over and held her hand. “Things are changing. I can feel it. Everything that’s happening in the capital will happen to us, too. A million people in the streets, Nasreen. A real revolution. This is our time.”
The family languished in the living room waiting for the suitor and his bride-to-be. Mohammad filled a plate with sweets and put them in front of Ghamar. She sucked her teeth and turned away. Shazdehpoor nibbled on a piece of baklava. “I knew there was something between them after that first spring lunch a few weeks ago.”
Mohammad turned to him in amazement. “They told you?”
“No. I could sense it.”
Mohammad shook his head. “I worry that they’re too young.”
“We were their age when we married,” said Ghamar.
“Exactly,” said Mohammad, only then realizing the cruelty of that word.
He waited for one of his wife’s brazen comebacks but she said nothing. She simply hun
g her head. Her husband’s countless infidelities, of which only she was aware, had finally exhausted her.
DROWNING
Jamsheed woke up disoriented, his vision blurred. He was sitting on the ground. His head felt wrong. He ran his fingers through his hair, feeling that a long strip had been shaved off from back to front. He was lying in the courtyard of the jail, not far from the town square.
A man was squatting in front of him with his arms crossed on his knees. He was an unkempt old man with a white beard—a vagrant, not an addict. He still had his hair, but his stench was so powerful that it woke Jamsheed up completely. “You’re in trouble, brother,” said the vagrant. His accent was Afghani.
A boy no more than sixteen years of age, with a Kalashnikov rifle, walked by and with no warning hit the vagrant on the back of the head with his rifle butt. Down the vagrant went in the dust, blood streaming down his ear and into his beard. He lay there, laughing wildly as the boy stepped over him and moved on to the next group of prisoners.
Only then did Jamsheed help the vagrant up. He handed him a napkin from his pocket. The man held it to his head. “I saw them bringing you in last night. You were very high. They dropped you like a sack of rice. One of them said they had found you by the side of the road. You had fallen off your motorbike.”
Jamsheed shook his head in disbelief. He had no recollection of how he got there.
“You’re in big trouble, brother,” said the vagrant. “They found a block of opium on you. And the chief of police is clamping down. He thinks it’ll save his head with the religious types.”
The boy with the gun looked over in their direction. He spat on the ground and gestured for Jamsheed to stand. Jamsheed kept his head down as he got to his feet. The boy poked him in the back with his gun. Jamsheed stumbled. The boy poked him again. This time Jamsheed swung around and tried to grab the muzzle of the gun, but his hands were trembling and slick with sweat. He was sick already.
The boy laughed at him. Then held up his gun and placed the muzzle on Jamsheed’s forehead. Jamsheed shut his eyes. He heard voices and footsteps in the distance. And the click of the safety switched to off.
To Keep the Sun Alive Page 13