By Rahnaward Zaryab
Translated from the Farsi Dari by Farhad Azad
Chapter 1
[Imagery from the Akbra-nama, circa late 1500s]
In those years, in those far-off years, I was twenty-one years old, and I was accustomed, once a week, to going to the shrine of Tamim Ansar. On Tuesdays, I walked. I crossed through the alleys of blacksmiths, Hindus, and musicians. Next, I would pass by the tomb of Shah Tahous and arrive on the other side of the Bala Hisar. After that, I would take a narrow path that stretched to the foothills and led to the Tamim Ansar shrine.
I always walked in the early evenings. After my pilgrimage of Tamim Ansar, I would walk to Panja Shah, Nazargah or “Cheshmeh Khezr.” Sometimes I would sit for a while in one of the lively hashish-smoking gatherings. From time to time, one of the men would stand up. Back bent, he would take a few steps and spin. He shouted, and perhaps expressing the pain in his heart:
“Hey!
Baba Qoo-e Mastan,
Around his tomb is a flowering garden,
through spring and winter!”
And a few others followed:
“Hey!
Baba Qoo-e Mastan!”
Always, as it got dark, I would leave that still ravine and walk home the way I came. I traveled through the pass by the Bala Hisar, walked to the shrine of Shah Tahous, and reached the musicians and blacksmith’s alley.
One night, I was walking the same way, heading home. When I arrived at the musician’s quarter, the air was very dark. Lights flickered here and there on the gates of the houses. It was as if the alley had been sprayed with water. A delightful scent of wet clay arose.
Around, perhaps from the house, where the sound of music emerged. High walls stretched on both sides of the alley. In the rectangular sky, which was visible above the walls, the stars flickered on an indigo background. There was no one in the alley. Under a light, only two black and white puppies played.
At that moment, I noticed a window open, and I saw a girl’s face— a round face, warm complexion, and a beauty mark on her forehead. A white ribbon was tied around her head. Her black hair was strewn across the left side of her neck. And I saw her eyes. Or maybe I thought I saw. Whatever it was, these eyes enchanted me. I strayed away from my manners. I stood and stared at the girl.
The girl glanced across the alley and then saw me. She stared back at me for a moment. I do not know if she smiled or frowned. Then, with a racket, she closed the window and disappeared. The light in that room also went out. This pleasant experience was like a fleeting dream.
I stood there for a long time, nailed in place. I could not bear to move. Finally, I asked myself involuntarily, “Did this girl smile or frown?”
And I answered myself: “I do not know… I do not know!”
Next to a wall, facing the same window, I sat on the ground and gazed at that windowpane. I wanted to see that girl’s face again. I sat there for a long time. However, the window did not open. It looked like a silent and angry face. The light in the room never turned on again.
Eventually, tired and heartbroken, I got up and set off. This inexpressible grief weighed heavily in my heart, and I saw that it was challenging to carry on in the darkness of the night.
The next week, it was again dark when I arrived there. Once more, against the wall, facing the same window, I sat on the floor and gazed at that windowpane. I sat for a long time. From somewhere— perhaps from the house— the sound of music came. In the indigo sky, the stars twinkled.
The two puppies approached me. They got acquainted with me very quickly and started playing. I caressed their heads. The puppies were cheerful and happy. But the window did not open. And I did not see the girl. The light in that room was out.
How I longed for that window to open again and to see the girl. That round face, warm complexion, and that beauty mark on her forehead were etched in my mind. I imagined the white ribbon around her head and the black hair that fallen down from the left side of her neck. I kept asking myself, “Did she smile or frown?” And I had no answer, and I was whispering: “I do not know … I do not know!”
* * *
And yet, the next week - suddenly - I saw her. Not in that windowpane, but in the shrine. She was standing in the corner. Straight, slender, and tall. And I, for the first time, understood why our poets had given so much thought to the height and stature of a lady, and have often likened a maiden’s height to a cypress:
“Your eminent height, who’s poetic verses has it swayed?”
She wore a blue dress with black flower prints. Her tunban was white. Her hair could not be seen because she wore a white scarf and a chadar. The white chadar covered her hair, neck, and body. The white ribbon, too, was not visible. But that mark, that round beauty mark, stood out on her forehead. Her hands were on her chest, hidden underneath her chadar. Her henna covered feet were exposed. The toes and sides of the soles of the feet were covered with a fiery henna color. She closed her eyes and prayed under her breath.
I was enchanted. I was stuck in a magic spell. I was sure it was her. It really was her. She was the same girl I had seen in the windowpane: the same round face, warm complexion, and that beauty mark on her forehead, and the same plump lips and slightly full mouth.
I looked around: two men were sitting facing each other and reciting the Quran. A middle-aged woman kissed the tombstones affectionately, and the young boy - perhaps her child - imitated his mother. An old man had placed his forehead on the wall of the tomb and was slowly whispering something - as if sharing a secret with saint Tamim. Sometimes he pressed his forehead against the stone and shook his head. Maybe he was revealing an unpleasant secret. A middle-aged woman was praying in the corner. An overwhelming and holy silence prevailed everywhere.
The flickering sound of the burnt candles could be heard. Behind the glass of the north-facing window of the shrine, two white doves were sitting and pecking each other.
I looked at the girl again. Her elevated breasts were visible from underneath the chador and went up and down with her steady breathing. Her eyes were still closed, and she was reciting her prayers. From head to toe, she rained charm.
Then, her prayer ended. She put her hands to her face. Her palms were also covered with fiery red henna. And the backs of her hands were decorated with henna - large and small glowing dots.
And at that moment, her eyes opened. These eyes were not black. They were not dark blue. They were not blue. They were not green. They were not brown. They had no particular color at all. It seemed to me that these eyes were a mixture of all the colors of the world. Indeed, all colors could be seen in these eyes.
I was numb and paralyzed. A spell had captivated me. And then, once again, her eyes noticed me. This time, I saw very clearly that her gaze was aggressive. It was as if her eyes were saying something to me with anger and aggression. They were scolding me. They were accusing me of something bad. What had I done wrong?
And she walked towards the woman who was praying: drifting by like a cypress, a charming cypress. And again, I understood the meaning of a graceful cypress.
The middle-aged woman also finished her prayer. Both silent and calm, they walked around the tomb and went out the door. Quickly I prayed and followed them.
Outside, I saw them giving money to beggars. They handed notes to several men, women, and children. The high heels she wore enhanced her height. She became a cypress. She turned, even more, to a charming cypress. I slowly followed them. Outside the shrine, a taxi was waiting for them along the narrow path. As she climbed in, she locked eyes with me.
This time she looked neither aggressive nor reproachful. I think she laughed with her eyes. And as a result of this laughter, the various colors of her eyes rippled like waves. Her eyes became as colorful as two bouquets: white, purple, yellow, red, blue, dark blue, and… at the same time, I felt a movement in the corner of her lip. It was a smile. A very vague smile that also had a hint of mischief and ridicule. She got in and left.
And I, hypnotized and fascinated, sat there, back to the wall beside the path, and gazed towards the end of the road, the way she had gone. Seated, and then, once, I noticed it had become dark, and there was no one in the shrine. In the midst of the evening’s darkness and in that silent and mysterious atmosphere, I was alone.
Translator’s notes:
Dear Readers,
This is just chapter one of a 150-page novel from the late Rahnaward Zaryab. We try our best to translate passages throughout the months.
Translations will be available here at AfghanMagazine.com.
Thank you for your support.
Farhad Azad
Publisher
