by Kimia Eslah
Mojegan unwrapped the candy slowly. She chewed the soft nougat and pistachio pieces, and let the sugary flavours overwhelm her senses and pause the heartache she could not understand. She returned to Seema and the dolls, and in the wondrous way that children can, she set aside one emotion to adopt a safer one. Consumed in her play, Mojegan snapped out of her reverie when she heard her mother instruct her to return home immediately. It was a sharp and exacting tone. She picked up her doll, and without a word to Seema or a glance at her mother’s face, Mojegan quickly returned home.
Mojegan understood that something unpleasant had occurred but she didn’t know what. She stood in the middle of the courtyard, just out of arm’s reach of her mother but near enough to not appear disinterested. Her plan was to stay quiet until she had a better idea of what had upset her mother. She raised her shoulders to her ears and looked into the middle distance to demonstrate her humility.
Overhead, a bird pecked at a plum hanging high up in the fruit tree, and then another began to squawk, seeking its share of the same plum. Mojegan tried to keep her attention on her mother, but it was difficult to remain interested when her mother remained silent for a long time. Mojegan raised her eyes to see that her mother’s expression had not changed. Her mother stood facing her, head cocked, eyes narrowed, a clenched fist pressed to her cheek, and the corner of her lower lip tucked into her mouth. Her mother continued to stand in this way, looking at Mojegan for what seemed like years.
The birds overhead stopped competing, and now Mojegan was distracted by the ants climbing over an overripe plum that had fallen to the ground. For a moment Mojegan stopped worrying about her mother being upset. The long silence and the ants had erased the last few concerned minutes from memory. She was about to kneel by the plum to see if she could coax a few ants to climb into her palm when her mother spoke.
When Batoul heard Mojegan’s voice squeal along with Seema’s, in a flash she had crossed the courtyard to the doors leading to the kooche. She heard Aga Sandoor greet the girls, and soon after, she heard him enter his own courtyard and shut the door. The anger Batoul felt drove her to be quick in motion and thought. With one hand she held her hijab in place, and with the other she opened the door. She stepped into the kooche and called Mojegan. Back home, when Batoul closed the door behind them, she let her hijab fall to her shoulders. Her short stature and round body, covered in layers of cotton, with two greying braids down to her knees, did nothing to soften the her sombre look.
Batoul felt a lifetime’s worth of anger rise through her body, only to catch in her throat. The length of her body expanded with heat before it contracted into a clenched jaw and pursed lips. Her mind was unable to focus in the present as decades-old memories rose like scalding steam from under the lid of a boiling pot. Each scene was a tableau of people and feelings, trapped in their time, unable to resolve and unable to move. Each scene had its unique blend of sadness and anger, but they shared the deep shame of being unworthy and unwanted.
Batoul remembered being a child, with her chest pressed into the long skirt and large thighs of her aunt. Tears streamed over her hot cheeks, and in a whisper, she pleaded to not be left behind. Her aunt laid a gentle, soothing hand on Batoul’s head, but she did not look down. Instead, she spoke only to Maman and expressed gratitude for taking her niece into their family. Days after her aunt abandoned her, Batoul promised herself to work diligently to be useful to her new family, to be worthy and remain wanted, and to never again stand between her keeper and another family. In her world of high contrast, this logic seemed sound. With the passage of time, Batoul settled into the comfortable routines of Maman’s home, and she stopped exploring the parts of the equation that she formulated as a child — the equation that added up to her sense of shame, the equation that required her to prove her worth each day.
Faced with Mojegan publicly assuming a new father, Batoul’s anger and shame overwhelmed her. She looked at Mojegan, who was distracted by the ants at her feet, and with clenched fists she crossed to her child. With every attempt to contain her contempt for Mojegan, she took the girl’s chin into her palm and directed her face up to her own. “Be content with what’s in hand,” Batoul said in a low growl. Her head ached and she felt she could not take in enough air. “Mifami? Understand?”
Mojegan gave the slightest nod, her chin still in her mother’s hand. The birds had begun squawking again but Batoul heard only the stuttering intakes of her daughter’s breath.
***
During the evening meal, Akbar and Omar ate heartily while Mojegan chatted about her day. She described the people who walked by while she played on the doorstep, the conversations she overhead, and the number of cats she chased out of the yard. Batoul was tired of listening to Mojegan’s chatter and stopped paying attention. When the boys were finished their meals, they described the highlights of their days to Mojegan. Omar retold Aga Qazvani’s account of the multitudes of caravans that once passed through Shiraz. After Omar completed his ninth year of school, he took a job at Aga Qazvani’s textile shop. Omar dusted the stocks, delivered purchases, and performed some clerical tasks. Aga Qazvani was Azadeh’s father-in-law and a Shirazi by several generations. He enjoyed recounting stories about Shiraz before the modernization of the city and the country.
That day, he had captured Omar’s attention with vivid descriptions of long chains of caravans that arrived in the city, coming from Esfahan and on route to Busehr and the Persian Gulf, before the Trans-Iranian Railway came through in 1938. Once the travellers had paid their tolls to enter Shiraz, the trade caravans rented space in the expansive caravansaries along the perimeter of Bazaar-e Vakil. In and along the storerooms, the travellers stored their goods and took shelter. Nearby, they housed their animals, purchased foodstuffs, and refilled their water vessels.
Omar leaned forward and spoke in a menacing tone. He depicted the fatigued, dusty traders to wide-eyed Mojegan, who sat directly across from him. “The caravans were pulled along by camels, donkeys, and mules. The men rode on horses, of course. They travelled weeks, and sometimes months. Can you imagine being in the desert for weeks?”
“Yes,” Mojegan exhaled. She imagined it on the spot and smiled at the idea of an adventure.
Omar wore an exaggerated expression, one eyebrow raised comically high. Maintaining a serious tone, he asked, “And, what would you take with you? Your supplies, that is?”
Mojegan quickly scanned the room as if she was preparing to leave immediately. “Water … and apples!” She spoke confidently. “And, cushions because I need to be able to sit on the camel without being bumped about.”
“Okay, water, apples, and cushions. Is that right, Mojeeh?” He asked, amused.
“Yes, and …” Mojegan jumped to her feet and grabbed her cushion. She tucked the large, dense cushion under her arm. Then, she attempted to collect apples from the centre of the sofra. In her attempt, she stepped on her plate of food and knocked over several glasses of water.
“Ay!” Batoul exclaimed at the mess. She turned to scold Mojegan, who was frozen mid-step and afraid to make another mistake, when she saw the folded sheet of paper on the carpet directly behind the girl. Batoul realized that she had forgotten to place it in her own room earlier that day. Akbar, sitting directly across from Batoul, also spotted the yellowed sheet. He noticed his mother’s expression of concern at seeing the sheet. He considered whether to hand it to her discretely or to pretend to not notice it and allow his mother to retrieve it herself. He preferred the safer option, and helped Omar to rescue Mojegan and clean the mess on the sofra.
Batoul snatched the paper immediately and tucked it under her seat. She knew Akbar had spotted the it, despite his pretending otherwise. She felt juvenile and embarrassed as she hid the sheet. She trusted Akbar to keep the contents of the sheet secret, more than anyone, including Akram and Azadeh, whose priorities were their own families, and rightly so.
Every day
, Akbar demonstrated his competence. Of all five children, he was most similar in temperament to Batoul — conventional, measured, and direct. Since Ali’s death, Batoul had grown dependent on Akbar’s ability to manage the tasks that Ali once performed. When city officials sent notices of ongoing construction for underground water pipes, or when the collectors delivered statements for the amounts owed for the utilities, it was Akbar who spent the evenings reading and re-reading the statements aloud. Batoul prepared a small spread particularly for those evenings. She felt very proud of him and considered him an equal in many ways.
Her compulsion to hide the sheet was rooted in her fear that the contents might cause Akbar grief. Without knowing the nature of the information, she did not want to expose him to it. Yet, without his help to read the sheet, she would not know whether he needed protection or not. The thin paper that lay under her cushion felt like a jagged stone pressing sharply into her flesh.
***
After Batoul put Mojegan to bed, she returned to tidy the kitchen and soak lentils and rice for the next day’s meals. Before passing the open door of the sitting room, where Omar spent most evenings, she stopped to listen to the radio program. Batoul heard the familiar baritone voice of Viguen, the jazz and pop singer adored by Omar, as well as every other youngster between Shiraz and Tehran. To Batoul, his songs were pleasant and familiar. She recognized the melodies he borrowed from well-known Iranian music, but their rhythm was distinctly different. Batoul would not have admitted it to Omar, or anyone else, but she enjoyed listening to Viguen’s “Mahtab,” “Moonlight.”
Following the song, the radio host announced the leading news stories: nationwide protests in support of Prime Minister Mosaddegh; the monarchy’s resistance to the prime minister’s encroachment upon its sphere of influence; and the continued backlash from the British over the government’s nationalization of Iran’s oil industry.
Batoul sneaked a peek into the room at Omar to assess his reaction to the sordid details of the unrest. Fifteen-year-old Omar continued to leaf through his weekly magazine and linger over colour photographs of his favourite actors. With her eyes closed tightly, Batoul gave thanks to Allah for Omar’s lack of interest in politics. She remembered eavesdropping on teenaged Ali, nearly thirty years earlier, from the same spot in the hallway. He had been trying to convince Baba to allow him to attend a local demonstration to support young Mosaddegh, who ardently championed secular democracy. Baba had respectfully, yet adamantly, refused to grant permission. Batoul had heard the older man encourage Ali to write letters to the editor, the local Member of Parliament, and to Mosaddegh himself. Baba reminded Ali that as the eldest son his priority was the well-being of his family, and any act that jeopardized his ability to care for them was an act of short-sighted selfishness. Batoul had been grateful to Baba for his prioritizing their family with such diplomacy and authority. She shared his opinions, but she knew that she would not have been able to express her concerns to Ali as gracefully. Hearing about Mosaddegh on the radio again, Batoul sensed, with a mixture of gratitude and guilt, the easiness of rearing Akbar and Omar according to her own beliefs without having to navigate Ali’s influence.
Assured by Omar’s preference for pictures over politics, Batoul headed for the kitchen. She placed the puzzling folded sheet under a tin of dill on the top shelf.
“Maman,” Akbar appeared at the doorway.
Startled, Batoul replied crisply, “Bale, yes, Akbar.”
“There’s something I want to talk to you about.” Akbar looked downwards and shuffled his feet.
“Bale?” prompted Batoul. She had not considered her reply should Akbar inquire after the folded sheet.
Hesitantly, Akbar took a seat on a low stool, then leaned over and produced a folded paper from his back pocket. For a moment, Batoul wanted to check under the tin of dill for the sheet she had put there. Then she noticed that Akbar was holding several sheets. Also, he was hunched over with his head and shoulders drooped.
“What is it, Akbar?” Batoul asked forcefully. She retrieved a stool from the corner. It was the stool that her mother-in-law used when they worked together in the kitchen. Momentarily, she thought about the mildness of her mother-in-law. Batoul depended on Maman’s compassion. It provided space for Batoul to feel disappointment and sadness, and to lessen the burden of emotional pain that accompanied her practical problems. She seated herself close to Akbar and rested her hand on his shoulder. As always, she feared that her compassion might weaken Akbar and lead him to neglect his responsibilities. She prayed that her sympathy and kindness be put to good use.
“Maman, I want to go to Shiraz University. They have a four-year medical sciences program, and then I can get a job as a technician and …”
“Viesa, viesa. Wait, wait. Slow down,” Batoul interrupted. Batoul wished she could pause the moment and think about how best to respond. She tried to maintain a benevolent smile, for fear of worrying Akbar.
“I want to go to university. I know we didn’t plan for me to go, and if you think it is best, then I won’t. I ...” Akbar began to talk his way out of the awkward and terrifying conversation.
“Viesa, Akbar. Just tell me a little more about what you want,” Batoul spoke softly. Truly, Batoul did not want to know more. She did not want to talk about this idea. A few months back, they had discussed Akbar’s job prospects after he finished his last year of high school. They had created a plan that filled Batoul with confidence. She fought her urge to stop the discussion and insist on his completing their original arrangement.
“Well …”Akbar began quietly. He went on to describe the medical sciences program at the newly opened technical college. He provided more detail than Batoul expected but she remained attentive. By the end of his description, he spoke excitedly with his hands gesturing in the air. “My grades are good, and I can pay for the tuition and books from my own earnings. I can even earn more if I tutor children in the evenings.” At this point he ran out of words. He had said everything he wanted to say to convince her. His hands returned to his lap, his gaze downcast, and he began to chew on the corner of his lower lip.
Batoul did not speak immediately. She also looked down for a moment of rest to collect her thoughts. “These papers you have,” she indicated with a nod of her chin. “What are they?”
Akbar revived and looked at the sheets in his lap. From the beginning of the conversation, his mother’s reaction had surprised him. At this point he was completely unsure where the conversation was leading. “Application forms. They need a signature from my parents, my parent, you. If I want to apply, that is.” He returned to chewing on his lower lip and looking down.
Another moment of rest ensued. Batoul remembered how Maman had attended to the children’s emotional well-being and how Ali had supported their intellectual growth. She remembered her vow to be a kinder mother to Mojegan.
“Akbar, I want your help with something.” Batoul spoke slowly as if she were unrolling a thick carpet.
“Bale, yes, Maman.” Akbar looked up at his mother.
Tears streamed down her cheeks but she smiled. She cupped his one hand with her two. “Akbar, will you take Mojegan to school in the mornings, on your way to university?”
With those words, Batoul felt the weight of a lifetime lift from her shoulders and unveil her heart. For a period following her open-hearted conversation with Akbar, she found respite from her unrelenting fear of abandonment, her pervasive anxiety about being unworthy, and her fixation on being self-sufficient. For a brief period, she found pleasure in accommodating another’s needs and asking for help to meet her own. For an instant, she had accomplished the near impossible: she had acknowledged her own pain.
PART TWO
CHAPTER 5
FROM HER NURSES’ RESIDENCE, situated on Khiaban-e Beheshte, Mojegan hurried along the wide promenade that ran through Park-e Shahr and ended at Bimarestan-e Sina, the hospital where s
he worked. It was 1967 and she had been working in Tehran for six months. Nearly every day she rushed to work, speed-walking the four-hundred-metre promenade across the park. Several times, she planned to leave her residence earlier in the morning so that she could enjoy the walk before the start of her shift at six-thirty. A few times, she planned to spend her day off walking about the park’s gardens and forests, which spanned several city blocks. As it approached the end of November and the coldest months of winter, a walk in the park became less attractive. On her days off, she preferred to sleep in.
Her work in the tuberculosis ward of Bimarestan-e Sina was considerably less gruelling than her two years of work in the maternity ward at Bimarestan-e Namazi in Shiraz. In the maternity ward, she would spend hours coaching one woman in labour and as soon as she delivered, Mojegan would rush back to the unit to coach another mother in labour. From the start to the end of each shift, Mojegan felt indispensable. For fear of being mocked, she knew to not voice her amazement, but she did wonder how women had managed childbirth without nurses.
At the end of her shifts in the maternity ward of the Shirazi hospital, she changed out of her white uniform into one of her baby doll dresses and her favourite olive green Mary Janes. Her dresses were at least knee-length with three-quarter sleeves, to appease her mother. She walked home from the hospital, tired and proud. Proud to be twenty years old, to be a working person, and to be an educated woman dressed in modern clothes.