The Daughter Who Walked Away

by Kimia Eslah

  ***

  From Shiraz International Airport, Mojegan hailed a taxi, an early model grey Paykan. The driver, who seemed only a few years older than Taraneh, sported a long patchy beard and indicated with a meaningful frown that Mojegan lacked modesty. Tempted to tell him to mind the road, yet insecure about the appropriate response, Mojegan reciprocated the frown as she pulled her chador over her forehead and secured it under her chin.

  An hour earlier, her flight had landed in time for the sunrise over Shiraz. Her brothers had offered to pick her up at the airport but she refused, given the early hour. Besides, she wanted to arrive quietly without the public fanfare of a group of relatives at the airport. A week had passed since Batoul’s death and Mojegan still felt fragile. Though she accepted that she would cry in the arms of her family, she wanted her distress to remain private.

  As the taxi wove between the morning traffic of motorbikes, buses, and cars, Mojegan beheld Shiraz in a foreign form. Among merchants opening shutters and bureaucrats buying newspapers, women in ankle-length black chadors went about their day. Flashy dresses, tailored suits, and showy tresses were replaced by modest garb and conservative haircuts. Walls along the thoroughfares and side streets were painted with depictions of imposing imams and heartrending murals of martyrs who died as soldiers in the war with Iraq. A war that had started two years prior and that continued still.

  While stopped at a red light, Mojegan peered closely at a roadside mural of two very young children. The boy, younger than Omid, held a rifle in his hand and grenades were attached to his waist. Beside him stood another child, clutching a Quran to her chest and wailing toward the sky. Behind the two children, messages described the bravery of other young boys who sacrificed their lives for the greater good. Underneath the mural, Mojegan read the title, These Are Our Heroes. Mojegan turned away to contain her anger.

  “They were brave boys,” the driver spoke over his shoulder, nodding at the mural. “They died for justice.”

  Mojegan did not look in his direction. She did not make a sound. Her jaw clenched and tears welled up in her eyes. Be quiet, Mojegan thought. There is no justice in this.

  “My brothers are serving, and I will join them this summer,” he spoke proudly.

  Mojegan’s eyes darted to the rearview mirror. She peered at this very young man who had enlisted to be a hero. Sitting before her was the personification of the mural, talking of justice and equating death with triumph. I can’t. This is too much. Mojegan abandoned any attempt to empathize. This is not my war.

  When they parked at the end of her narrow street, Mojegan nearly threw the fare at him before escaping the musty confines of the taxi. Standing on the curb, looking down the kooche, she inhaled deeply, rolled back her shoulders, and tried to regain equilibrium. She managed until she arrived in Batoul’s courtyard, surrounded by her sisters, brothers, and their families. Soon she was crying along with them in an embrace of many arms. I am an orphan, Mojegan thought. I have lost my mother and my home.

  ***

  On her second day in Shiraz, Mojegan decided to visit her mother’s plot, alone. Several family members offered to accompany her but she declined diplomatically. While she had lay paralyzed with grief in her Toronto apartment, Mojegan had missed the chance to mourn ritually, as a family. The day following her death, Batoul, who had been the mother of five, grandmother of twenty-one, and great-grandmother of twelve, was buried next to her husband, Ali, who had died thirty-three years earlier. Mojegan’s siblings had received relatives and friends at the mosque the following day. A week later, the siblings and their families visited Batoul’s tomb with flowers and rosewater. A local man recited funeral prayers while Akbar and Omar distributed sweets and dates to the poor, who often took respite in the cemetery’s gardens. The feeling of belonging that she had lost as an absent daughter she wanted to regain through solitude with her mother.

  As Mojegan prepared to step out, Zeena approached her with a dark head scarf and a longer chador.

  “Do you think more is necessary?” Mojegan asked respectfully. “Wearing this … tent? It’s not Iranian, it’s excessive.”

  Zeena smiled meekly and nodded. She helped Mojegan tightly bind the head scarf and wrap the chador over her entire frame. As Zeena demonstrated how to secure the fabric in place, Mojegan remembered one of the few stories her mother had ever relayed. Though most of Batoul’s tales were moralistic lessons about the perils of procrastination, the moral of this story was unclear. The traumatic impact on her mother had been obvious and caused Mojegan to recall the story more easily than the others.

  Mojegan was an adolescent when she heard the story, but the event had taken place before her birth. In 1936, the Shah decreed the ban on the veil. By 1940, Batoul had grown accustomed to leaving home without her chador, but with a head scarf. She felt mostly confident that wearing a head scarf would be considered an act of style, not piety. As she made her way to the central market that day, she second guessed herself as to whether it might attract the attention of the police that patrolled Bazaar-e Vakil. Batoul had nearly completed her purchases when she witnessed Khanome Namakyar’s defiant protest. The scream of the middle-aged woman whose family lived a couple of blocks from Batoul’s home echoed through the domed ceiling of the bazaar and pierced hearts as might the shards of a crystal vase smashed against a wall. Two young officers beat her back and legs with a wooden stick before they removed her chador forcibly. The shocking violence of the uniformed men yelling and pulling at the mother’s chador captured the attention of everyone in the vicinity and silenced the halls of the bazaar. Batoul heard only the sounds of assault and pain.

  For men to touch a woman in public, to pull at her clothes, and to attack her had been a surreal experience without comparison in Batoul’s lifetime. A few people tried to intervene and pleaded with the officers for their understanding. The bystanders jumped back quickly when the sticks turned in their direction. When it was evident that the officers were set on their task, a few in the crowd urged Khanome Namakyar to take off her chador. By then, she was in a heap, uncovered and bleeding from her nose. Several women tended to her, wiping her face, picking up her belongings, and a young man carried her two wailing children. The small group walked her out of the bazaar and into the blinding light of the main street leading to her home.

  The incident had scared Batoul deeply and she feared being attacked. She steered clear of uniformed men and even startled at sudden sounds in their local bazaar. Despite feeling immodest without her chador, she performed her errands without even a simple head scarf. She prayed to Allah to understand that she was still modest in all the ways that mattered and that she was protecting herself and her family by not attracting attention from the police. Batoul continued to hear stories about women being beaten and having their chadors forcibly removed and protests by mullahs at the indecency of banning the veil.

  Mojegan knew that her mother was not a political person. Batoul had preferred everyone keep their opinions to themselves and stick to the work of everyday life. Mojegan wondered what her mother thought of this brave new world where everything was different and so much the same.

  Mojegan snapped out of her reverie to thank her sister-in-law for her help. “Merci, Zeena,” said Mojegan humbly as she took hold of Zeena’s hands. “You have always been kind to me, and I know you were a great comfort to my mother.”

  “I love your family very much, Mojeeh.” Zeena squeezed Mojegan’s hands and kissed her thrice. “Shall I expect you for lunch?”

  “Hatman, of course.” Mojegan kissed her again and headed out.

  Originally, she had planned to take a taxi. When she arrived at the end of the kooche, she grew reluctant. Morning traffic bustled. It seemed there were more fares than taxis. At these times, drivers often picked up several passengers along their route. Mojegan was not interested in sharing space with anyone, even a driver. Though it took nearly an hour to reach t
he cemetery, the walk through familiar neighbourhoods was pleasant. On the way, she purchased a bouquet of white lilies.

  As she passed through the ornate stone arch that served as the entranceway to the cemetery, she saw several rows of newly placed tombs. Each was topped with a picture of a uniformed young man, a war casualty. Nearby, a group of women huddled to comfort each other, their chadors appearing together as large black mass that heaved with sobs and wails. Mojegan felt her lower lip tremble in response to the pain in their cries. To regain her composure, she focused on her steps as she travelled the pathway between tombs.

  Closer to the centre of the cemetery, where her parents and grandparents were buried, she spotted a familiar profile. Sitting on a stool by Batoul’s plot and wrapped in a chador, Soheila looked longingly at her friend’s tombstone. In her late seventies, Soheila seemed to be a smaller version of herself. Mojegan didn’t know whether to approach her or wait on a nearby bench. Before she could decide, Soheila noticed Mojegan and motioned her over.

  It was only a few steps to reach Soheila and in that brief period Mojegan began to weep openly. Soheila attempted to stand up from the stool but Mojegan stopped her. Instead, Mojegan knelt at the older woman’s feet and let herself be embraced and soothed. Several minutes passed as Mojegan sobbed heavily into Soheila’s lap and Soheila rubbed her crown.

  “I failed her,” blurted Mojegan from trembling lips and with her head still resting in Soheila’s lap. “She would’ve never left me but I left her. Twice.”

  “Hm,” Soheila spoke softly, looking at the line of plane trees that bordered the cemetery.

  “I could have taken care of her,” Mojegan spoke more confidently but not lifting her head. “I should have stayed to help her.”

  “Uh-huh,” Soheila said faintly, still stroking Mojegan’s head.

  “It’s my fault that she died,” Mojegan asserted. “I am the nurse. I should have done more.”

  “Hm,” Soheila repeated noncommittally.

  “Soheila,” Mojegan protested in a wretched tone and lifted her head to look at the older woman.

  “Bale, yes?” Soheila smiled peacefully at her.

  “Are you listening?” Mojegan heard the childish whine in her voice.

  “Hatman, of course,” Soheila continued flatly. “You blame yourself for your mother’s death.”

  “Yes,” Mojegan said, deflated.

  From her place, leaning slightly on Soheila’s legs, Mojegan turned to her mother’s tomb. There were several bouquets of flowers and a portrait of Batoul from a few years earlier.

  “Are you familiar with reincarnation?” Soheila asked lightly, staring into the far distance and stroking Mojegan’s back.

  “Bebakhsheed? Pardon me?” Mojegan turned slightly to face Soheila.

  “Hindus and Buddhists. They believe we return to live again,” Soheila began poetically.

  Mojegan stared out into the same direction as Soheila, to see if something in the material world had triggered her to speak esoterically. She saw four clusters of mourners, two beggars smoking in a far corner, and an elderly custodian ambling along with a heavy pail.

  “Christians and Jews think there’s a heaven and hell, like we do,” she continued, sounding absentminded.

  Mojegan wondered if this aimless musing was an aspect of old age. After a long pause, Soheila began again. “It’s a device, you know. Heaven. Hell. The possibility of returning as an insect. Keeps people pious and compliant.”

  Soheila paused again, and Mojegan’s mind began to wander and to think about her children.

  “Batoul prayed five times every day, even when she was sick. Except,” Soheila paused. She inhaled deeply and exhaled. “Except when your grandmother died. For days, she cried.”

  Mojegan did not know these details. She found it difficult to imagine her mother crying without regard for incomplete chores or the time of day.

  “She prayed because it brought her peace. She felt heard.” Soheila looked at Batoul’s picture. “Prayer was an end unto itself.”

  Mojegan remained silent and uncertain.

  “That was your mother. She did not pray to avoid hell. She just wanted to be heard by her god,” Soheila said smiling.

  “Uh-huh…yeani chi? What’re you saying?” Mojegan asked abruptly. She withdrew slightly and looked up at Soheila. “That I should not blame myself for her death? Because she was content on her own terms?”

  “What?! No!” Soheila squeezed Mojegan’s shoulder and chuckled heartily. “I’m saying that your mother was as stubborn as an ass and I would not be surprised if she came back as one.”

  “Soheila!” Mojegan exclaimed and looked about to check whether anyone heard.

  “Mojegan, I loved your mother immensely. In our way, we were sisters.” Soheila’s voice caught and she paused to swallow her loss.

  In a gesture to indicate her compassion, Mojegan returned to leaning lightly against Soheila’s legs. The older woman smiled and began to rub Mojegan’s back.

  “Batoul disliked dependency. She avoided it at nearly all costs.” Soheila spoke frankly without judgement. “Truth be told, Mojeeh, I think she died at a point that suited her.”

  “Hm,” Mojegan voiced understanding.

  They sat for another few minutes in silence, observing the visitors and the greenery. Mojegan accepted Soheila’s offer of a ride home in her pristine blue sedan. Traffic was minimal in the middle of the day, when businesses closed and people retired for lunch and rest. From her purse, Soheila produced two wrapped poolaki and pressed Mojegan to accept one of the hard candies. Each woman sucked on a delicious disc of caramelized sugar flavoured with saffron. Mojegan watched the scenery pass by and exhaled deeply several times. When they arrived at the end of her kooche, Mojegan felt lighter than she had for a week.

  Soheila reached for Mojegan’s hand and held it in a firm grip. Mojegan faced her and smiled though she realized they were both tearing up. Soheila shrugged and assumed a funny expression to lighten the mood. Mojegan thanked her for her kindness and promised to call from Toronto. She was about to depart when she remembered a notebook she had found in her mother’s room. She described the plain palm-size notebook filled with recipes and a very old yellowed and folded square sheet that detailed how to make indigo dye.

  “No one in the house claims it. Could it belong to you?” Mojegan asked curiously.

  Soheila smiled widely, and Mojegan assumed she was preparing to make a joke. “That is your mother’s book,” Soheila explained.

  Mojegan opened her mouth to respond but she was uncertain what to say. Her first thought was that her mother was illiterate and would have no use for a notebook. She remained quiet and raised her eyebrows to indicate her interest.

  “Those are her recipes. She wanted to make sure they did not … go, with her.” Soheila continued to smile mischievously.

  “So you wrote them down for …” Mojegan stopped speaking when the thought occurred to her. “Maman learned to read and write!”

  “Yes, nearly three years ago now,” Soheila smiled with pride. “You know her, always preparing for the future. Always worried that things will fall apart without her.”

  “She never mentioned it,” stated Mojegan, stunned at this discovery.

  “No, we studied privately.” Soheila sighed happily as she remembered those months.

  “Sometimes, I feel like I didn’t know her well,” said Mojegan in a thread of her usual voice.

  “Yes, I know what you mean,” said Soheila. “Batoul thought that children needed instructions most. She worried that sharing herself would muddle the instructions, confuse her children.”

  Soheila could see the disappointment in Mojegan’s crumpled frame. She placed her hand on Mojegan’s shoulder and squeezed compassionately. Mojegan turned and smiled sadly. The two embraced again before Mojegan returned to her mother’s ho
me to rest for the afternoon.

  ***

  After a quick lunch and a short nap on her second day, Mojegan called her family. It was seven o’clock in the morning in Toronto, and she hoped to speak to the children and Reza before they began their day.

  Omid picked up after the third ring. “Hello,” Omid spoke in his coarse morning voice. He sounded distant and Mojegan assumed that was due to their poor connection.

  “Salam, Omid-jaan,” Mojegan said cheerily and loudly. “Maman ast-em. It’s Maman.”

  “Maman!” Omid yelled out as an announcement for the rest of the household.

  “Chetori? How are you?” asked Mojegan. Mojegan was surprised how much she missed hearing his voice. She was rarely away from the children for more than a few hours.

  “Maman, we’re moving!” Omid yelled back.

  “Chi? What?” Mojegan smiled and told herself that she must have misheard.

  “We’re moving! We’re getting a house!” Omid continued to yell joyfully. “Oh, here’s Nassrin.”

  “Maman? I miss you,” Nassrin began, and Mojegan could hear the emotion in her voice.

  “I miss you, too, Nassrin,” Mojegan tried to soothe Nassrin but her mind was darting wildly. Moving? What did Omid mean?

  “When will you be back?” Nassrin was crying into the phone.

  “Very soon, sweetheart, just another few days.” Mojegan tried to speak lovingly but loudly enough to be heard.