The Daughter Who Walked Away

by Kimia Eslah

  From her room, Batoul could hear the excited chatter of the women fussing over her daughters and teasing them about their grooms. She had mixed feelings about not being involved in the preparation for the hana bandan, when the female relatives dye the bride’s hands with henna, or for the namazdi, when the grooms and their families visit to eat sweets and exchange rings. She was glad to be excused from the chatter that was part of these ceremonies. Yet, she felt responsible for the success of the celebrations. She was certain that after she delivered her baby, she would prepare the sofra aghd, the lavish spread that was displayed at the final wedding ceremony.

  Mojegan was born in the last week of 1947 and one month before the wedding. Batoul bled considerably during her delivery and she was in recovery while preparations were made for the ceremony. She attended the ceremony with Mojegan, who was swaddled in a beautiful rose-coloured blanket. When the clergyman recited the marriage contract, Batoul was the woman to rub together two decorated cones of sugar representing a sweet marriage. The sprinkle of fine sugar dust fell softly onto the white cloth that hung over the couples’ heads.

  Before stepping away, Batoul bent and kissed Akram’s cheeks thrice, being careful not to smear her daughter’s makeup. She held Akram’s chin and gazed into her eyes. Following a deep sigh, Batoul said, “I am so happy for you, Akram. You deserve this and so much more.”

  Akram gave a series of nods and pursed her lips to stop herself from crying and to avoid causing her eyeliner to run. Across the room, Akram spotted Azadeh, who was sitting beside Homayoun and looking back at her sister. She could tell Azadeh was crying because there were black lines running down her cheeks. Akram’s view was soon blocked by Batoul, who bent over to wipe the streaks from Azadeh’s face and kiss her cheeks.

  After the recitations and signing of the wedding contracts, Batoul found a secluded space to nurse Mojegan. As she placed her nipple into Mojegan’s wide-open, searching mouth, Batoul began to cry and shudder. This life is a confusion of priorities, she thought. At times, she felt certain that she understood her role, and then she would see life out of the corner of her eye and know that she was mistaken all along.

  “Do you want to talk?” Maman asked softly as she nestled herself beside Batoul, wrapping her flowing robes into a tidy bundle by her side.

  Batoul smiled feebly and nodded before she returned to gaze at Mojegan, who nursed vigorously, her tiny hands kneading her mother’s flesh.

  Gently, Maman stroked her granddaughter’s head of fine brown hair with the back of her bent finger. “You make beautiful daughters,” Maman said in a soothing voice.

  Both mothers looked upon the nursing child, where it was easiest to rest their eyes. From the main hall, they heard an undulation of women’s voices celebrating the married couples. Maman looked up briefly toward the doorway to see a group of jubilant young cousins rush past. Batoul did not dare to raise her eyes in case she made eye contact with Maman. At that moment, she felt as vulnerable as she had felt when she had been a child delivered to Maman’s home — a little girl who felt confused and betrayed.

  “Maman, why did my aunt bring me to you?” Batoul heard her tone, the scared and angry way in which a troubled child demands answers. “Why didn’t she keep me with herself, with my brothers?”

  “Batoul-jaan,” Maman replied softly as she began to rub Batoul’s back with one hand. “Your aunt, Allah yarhamha, rest her soul, wanted you to have a good life.”

  “I had a good life. Why not send away one of the boys? I did so much more than them,” Batoul spoke indignantly.

  “Batoul.” Maman’s pleading voice remained compassionate. “It broke her heart to bring you here. She never imagined needing to find you a home …”

  “I already had a home!” Batoul hissed, her eyes still downcast.

  Startled by Batoul’s abruptness, Maman readjusted her seat but she did not move away.

  “Babaksheed, I’m sorry, Maman-jaan,” apologized Batoul, realizing her ingratitude. “I deeply appreciate the home and life that you and Baba have provided for me.”

  “I know you do, Batoul-jaan.” Maman smiled warmly at her. “We love you very much.”

  “I love you, too.” Batoul dared to look into Maman’s affectionate dark brown eyes.

  Batoul meant her words; she loved Maman in a way that transcended all other manifestations. Maman created room for her to experiment and develop her best self. Maman expressed love irrespective of Batoul’s foul moods, errors, and limitations. Maman offered Batoul opportunities to discover her talents and preferences. She could not imagine a life worth living without Maman. Yet, she chaffed at their differences. Maman was diplomatic and affectionate, whereas she was abrasive and demanding. Batoul wondered whether she was more like her aunt, whether her siblings were also cold and condescending, and whether her parents had shared her shortcomings. Batoul wondered whether she would have felt more confident in her mothering of Akram and Azadeh if she had been raised by a woman more like herself.

  Then, she felt Maman’s hand begin to rub her back again, as Maman had returned to loving her time and time again following Batoul’s many despondent outbursts over the years. Batoul considered the lessons she had learned from Maman about patience, compassion, and tolerance. She remembered all the ways, before and after motherhood, in which Maman taught Batoul to love children as they are. Batoul wondered, Isn’t that what I long for? To know that I am loved for who I am, flaws and all?

  Still latched on to her mother’s nipple, Mojegan had fallen asleep. Batoul slid the tip of her smallest finger in between her skin and Mojegan’s wet lips to break the suction. Blissfully unaware, Mojegan relaxed further into Batoul’s arms.

  “Am I a good mother?” asked Batoul, surprising herself by voicing for the first time this most intimate and timorous of questions.

  “Yes, Batoul. You are an exceptional mother,” Maman answered confidently into Batoul’s teary eyes. “Your children are blessed to have you.”

  Batoul exhaled and smiled weakly. She looked down upon the sleeping baby and promised herself to love Mojegan for who she was, flaws and all.

  ***

  Mojegan’s grandparents died in 1949, one year after the weddings. Baba, and then Maman, had been bedridden for two weeks, coughing and complaining of chest pains. What had begun with fever and chills left them both weak in bed with difficulty breathing. Ali and Batoul took turns keeping vigil each night to provide any comfort they could. On the evening of the night they died, Ali and Batoul decided to send for the reluctant doctor in the morning — the doctor who had claimed there was nothing to do but let the illness run its course. That night, Batoul cried with a child’s sense of eternal despair as she began to grieve the loss of her third mother. In her anguish, she accepted Ali’s loving embrace as she had never done before, thinking only of his mother and the voice she would never hear again.

  Ali organized the funeral rites, and that afternoon his brothers Bijan and Ahmad helped carry their parents’ bodies to the mosque while his sister Rhoya organized the women to prepare meals for the memorial service. At the mosque, the three brothers privately bathed Baba’s body before wrapping him in clean white cloth. Batoul went to the mosque with the help of her sisters-in-law, but she remained sitting in a chair in the corner of the room as the three younger women prepared Maman’s body for burial.

  In the main hall with its high ceilings and expansive wool rugs, the men and women congregated in separate halves of the room, sitting on sturdy cushions along the wall and speaking in loud whispers. Some women cried dramatically and beat their chests to emphasize their agony, but Batoul remained silent, sitting between her grown daughters, Akram and Azadeh. She pulled her knees into her chest and wrapped her black chador around like a shield, leaving only a slit for her eyes, which stared at the pattern on the well-worn carpet.

  It was the first funeral she could remember attending. The public
nature of the event, with the many people streaming into the hall and the high ceilings that left her feeling exposed, as well as the constant stream of women arriving at her feet to express condolences, was more than Batoul could bear. Seeing people filling their plates with sweets at the tables in the back of the hall made her nauseated, and she was certain she would vomit. As a hot wave of nausea rippled through her, she pressed her back against the cooler walls of the mosque to regain composure. In the next moment, she felt herself being lifted from under her arms and carried out of the mosque.

  Only after the women unwrapped her chador did Batoul realize that she had vomited. There in her courtyard, in Maman’s courtyard, she saw Soheila directing Akram and Azadeh to get fresh clothes and wet rags. Seeing Soheila released Batoul’s tears and she began to sob uncontrollably. The women dressed Batoul in clean clothes and laid her on her mattress. She continued to weep into Soheila’s lap until she fell asleep.

  At home, her three children, Akbar, Omar, and Mojegan, were heartbroken by the loss of their grandparents, and they were confused by their mother’s withdrawal. Their mother, who managed their house and their affairs, who filled basins and plates, who tended to their needs and taught them to tend to each other’s, was not present. She was paralyzed, unresponsive, and unavailable to them.

  Batoul refused to rise from the mattress or leave the room — to eat, to pray, or to wash. When Mojegan entered the room, Batoul allowed the toddler to nurse lying alongside her, but she said nothing. Feeling emboldened by Batoul’s acceptance of his embrace, Ali approached her and encouraged her to join him in the courtyard. She did not respond and curled her body under the blankets.

  The following day, Ali sent for Akram. Twenty-one-year-old Akram came with her infant son and several overnight bags, and she restored order to the home. She cooked meals, tended to the vinegars, and directed Akbar and Omar to run errands, perform chores, and mind the young children, including Mojegan. On the third day of Batoul’s retreat under her blankets, Akram decided to be direct. “Maadar, mother,” Akram spoke softly, as she sat cross-legged on the mattress by Batoul’s head.

  Batoul lay on her side, with her eyes closed. She did not move but she moaned softly.

  “Maadar, I know you don’t feel well. I know you are very sad.”

  From Batoul’s wide-open mouth came a deeper moan, originating in her chest and threatening to become a guttural cry. The sound was infused with such pain that Akram became tearful and clenched her jaw to regain her equanimity. She noticed her father standing just outside the doorway to the room — his face contorted with concern, his arms crossed, and his shoulders hunched in defeat.

  As a child, Akram had sensed that her parents were not an ordinary pair. As a married woman, she understood that they were not in love. As much as her parents cared for each other, their lack of intimacy was a barrier greater than the mountain range of Zargos.

  “Right now, the children need you. You are still their mother, and they need you back.” Akram lay alongside her mother, spoke softly, and stroked Batoul’s hair away from her face.

  Batoul emitted a choked sob, and then tears came. Akram wrapped her arms around her mother and held her tight. She saw her father come into the room and sit against the far wall with his legs pulled into his chest. She saw him cry, and she understood that he wished he was in her place, holding his wife, soothing her, and loving her.

  Ali died two months later. Batoul mourned in silence, uncertain about what she had lost.

  CHAPTER 4

  IN 1953, ON THE MORNING of the four-year anniversary of Ali’s death, Batoul took Akbar, Omar, and Mojegan to visit the cemetery. Azadeh and Akram were also present. Together, the women placed bouquets of fresh flowers and sprinkled rose water on the graves of Baba, Maman, and Ali. Seventeen-year-old Akbar knelt on one knee and held Mojegan close to him. To prevent her from running about, he whispered about the cries of the birds in the nearby garden. Batoul recited a few verses from the Quran in a subdued voice and then said a prayer for each of them. They all returned to their family home for a small meal. Then Akram and Azadeh left to tend to their own households.

  The wax that sealed the vats of vinegar had hardened and the eight containers were ready for shipment. Akbar and Omar helped the two delivery boys carry the containers up the cellar stairs and onto the carts in the courtyard. Her sons left soon after for their jobs. Afterwards Mojegan reluctantly allowed her mother to put her down for a nap.

  Batoul thought she would also rest but her mind was preoccupied with future plans. Instead, she rose from her place beside Mojegan and headed to the room which had once belonged to Maman and Baba. The room was still filled with their possessions. Their sleeping mattress was rolled up on the floor against the far wall. Adjacent to the mattress was the wooden trunk that held their clothes. On the wall was a mirror in a wooden frame, and tucked in the corner of the frame was a sepia photograph of Baba’s father and uncles, dressed in military uniforms and sporting large mustaches.

  Three years earlier, Akbar and Omar had moved into this room. She understood that her sons wanted privacy. She assumed Akbar would marry within a couple of years and commandeer the room for himself and his wife. There was a third room that Omar could use later, once it was emptied of unused furniture.

  Before Akbar and Omar moved into their grandparents’ room, Batoul had dusted the space and swept the rug but she had not disturbed her in-laws’ belongings. She was uncertain how to proceed, so she had postponed the task. She planned to donate her father-in-law’s clothes to a vagabond who often walked along their kooche. Her mother-in-law’s clothes she would add to her own wardrobe or use as fabric for household items. Soon after his parents’ funeral, Ali had gifted Maman’s wedding ring to his sister Rhoya and Baba’s wedding ring to his brother Bijan.

  Batoul did not expect to find anything meaningful in their trunk, and she was surprised to find a sheet of paper folded and pressed flat at the bottom. It sat under the neat piles of clothes, shoes, and grooming accessories. There were no other papers or books in the trunk. The folded sheet was a perfect square of yellowed paper. Its colour matched the golden stain of the wood, and Batoul imagined that it could have been mistaken for a stain on the panel. She did not reach for the sheet immediately, hoping it was a blank page. She finished bagging Baba’s clothes and all the shoes and accessories. She placed the burlap sack near the courtyard door to the kooche so it would be ready when she heard the beggar come along calling for baksheesh, a gift of generosity. She put away Maman’s clothes, some into her own trunk and the rest in her pile of fabric remnants. Then, Batoul sat in the family room and considered the folded sheet that was still at the bottom of the trunk two rooms away. It might be blank, Batoul thought. With courage rooted in that thought, she returned to the boys’ room and took the sheet from the empty trunk. She left the lid open to signal to Akbar and Omar that it was available for use.

  Back in the sitting room, Batoul sat cross-legged with the sheet in hand. Carefully, so as not to tear the paper, she unfolded it. Batoul’s shoulders drooped and she frowned when she saw that the sheet was filled with words. She could stare at the dark blue scrawls on the yellowed page for the rest of her life and she would not know what was written there. Indignant about stumbling on this puzzle, Batoul refolded the page and shoved it under the cushion. She headed to the kitchen to prepare the evening meal while Mojegan finished her nap.

  Once six-year-old Mojegan was awake, Batoul sent her to wash her face and return to the sitting room for a snack. Batoul cracked the pistachios in two and left a small pile of the bright green nuts and some dried white mulberries for her daughter. Later on, while she watched Mojegan splash about with a small copper bowl and her doll’s clothes, Batoul rinsed garments and linens in the large wash tub by the well in the courtyard. She smiled at her daughter’s playful mimicry but kept her eyes on her own work, not wanting to attract Mojegan’s attention, nor slow he
r own progress on the household chores. On difficult days, Batoul accused Mojegan of seeking more attention than any of her other children and instructed Mojegan to curb her demands. On compassionate days, Batoul remembered that it had been Maman who bestowed loving attention on the children while Batoul immersed herself in her work.

  Batoul thought about how much Ali had loved Mojegan, as he had loved his other children. He did not live to know the young child who ran about the yard chasing away neighbourhood cats, who snuck into the pantry to eat fistfuls of dates, and who sulked after her brothers left each morning. Ali knew the nursing baby and the playful toddler, and Mojegan had grown up without any memories of him.

  By the age of six, Mojegan understood that her family was unique, but she could not imagine what life was like in the homes of others, where a man slept in the family bed and went to work each day. She closely watched Seema’s father, who lived next door. She and Seema played with dolls in the kooche following the afternoon siesta. Aga Sandoor arrived home each day just before evening prayers, walking up the kooche, smiling and nodding to children who passed him. Invariably, Seema dropped her cloth doll and ran down the narrow street to greet her father, all the time calling Baba in a singsong squeal before she clutched his thighs in a tight embrace.

  Spontaneously, as if experimenting with objects in the fountain to see what might float and what might sink, one afternoon Mojegan joined Seema in running along the kooche, calling Baba, and embracing Aga Sandoor’s legs. Seema appeared so delighted with this ritual that Mojegan wanted to know what it felt like. She wondered, Is it as thrilling as it appears?

  As she daringly and self-consciously wrapped her arms around his legs, along with Seema, she felt his hand upon her head, lightly rubbing her crown as he did with Seema. He stepped back, and from his pocket, he produced a sweet for Seema. Mojegan looked away, not wanting to seem expectant, for truly, she had surprised herself when her legs began to run down the kooche. When Aga Sandoor presented her with a sweet, she felt tears well up. Seema was already chewing on the soft nougat and returning to her doll. Aga Sandoor knelt to one knee and placed the sweet in Mojegan’s hand and rubbed the crown of her head again before he walked the rest of the way to his front door.