It was not the first time we came to Dumag. A village that is not far from Zahedan, where most of the Shah Bakhsh people live. My grandmother’s house is the most luxurious because my only uncle built it with special architecture. Everyone knew the grandmother, she was a hardworking woman. When she was 30 years old, she became a widow, but this did not keep her at home. She built one of the largest ostrich farms in Dumag with great difficulty and raised all her children. Not only her children but people’s children. I was sitting in front of her.

She rubbed her hands together and took an oil heater next to the heat. Her big eyes had a strange sparkle and every time you looked at her, she would mesmerize you. Her long eyelashes were white in the middle; Her elongated nose and small mouth were beautiful. Despite being 70 years old, she was charming like a beauty queen…

I wanted my grandmother to tell the stories she used to tell and take me to her world. As if she also knows why I came to her room at this time of night…

She looked at Granaz, the janitor’s daughter, and said: I was the same age as Granaz in those days, in the spring we would go to one of the green plains nearby and live in a black tent… I glanced at her and she continued: My father had a large herd in the spring, he would take them to greener pastures. It was a great pastime for me. I used to run here and there in the morning when I woke up. I used to play, and at night I fell asleep like the dead in my mother’s arms during dinner. The spring season was over in the blink of an eye, when the flowers were blooming and I understood that we have to return to Dumag and a hot summer will be waiting for us. But a strange thing happened to us that year. Grandmother looked at the dark window, where nothing but darkness was visible from behind it. Only the sound of a dog howling as if its leg was broken could be heard from far away. Granaz was looking at us, her eyes were shining and she was eager to hear the story. But the sound of the dog scared her. The grandmother took over the responsibility of Granaz, and she took care of the child in her old age and considered her as her own daughter.

It was still spring and I had to go to Mulla Nik Mohammad’s school because of my mother’s insistence. Around the room, the girls of the village sat and recited Si-Pareh. I always used to play while reading Si-Pareh and run from one side of the room to the other side of the room. Mullah Nik Mohammad used to glare at me from behind his glasses. I was afraid of him, but when I was with the children, I forgot this fear and that furry face… Once he took off his turban, I realized that he was bald, and I laughed softly at him. My father had beautiful blonde hair, I couldn’t believe that there was someone who didn’t have hair.

Every day, I would go and tell my older sisters, who had learned to pray before Mullah Nik Mohammad, about his bald head, and we would laugh at him. I had nicknamed him brass head. Among all these laughs, I was afraid of Mullah’s look, sometimes he gave me strange looks…

When the grandmother got here, she poured herself some flax tea and put one of those colored candies in her mouth and said under her breath: “But the dream was far away and death was near…” One summer afternoon, we were sitting inside the house when the shepherd entered the room where my parents were sitting. My father shouted: “What’s wrong with you shouting? Who allowed you to enter the room without permission?”

The shepherd said: Sir, we are unfortunate, come and see what has happened to us, and he took my father to the sheep pen. My father’s sheep were dead. As if not years but centuries had passed since their death, they were lying on the ground like dry leaves. My father turned to the shepherd and said: What happened to these? The shepherd said: They were all healthy in the morning, I gave them grass. Now that I came, I saw that they were all wasted. I smelled the grass and saw that they smell of manure and poison.

My father had planted all his lands with wheat and barley. When you looked, you could see the golden land in the distance, whose ears carried the sound of wheat singing in the wind. My father was waiting for the car to come from the city and harvest his crop. In the middle of the night, the farmer knocked on the door of our house and he and my father had gone to the fields. Someone had set fire to all the crops, leaving nothing but ashes on the fields. That afternoon, I was looking at my brown-haired father from behind the window.

A man wearing a turban was standing next to him, finally he pushed his head and came towards the house… He came straight to our girls’ room and hugged me. My father’s body was cold as if he was shaking. Then he talked to my mother. I got up, ran to my mother’s room and jumped. Is anyone dead?

Beside my mother’s tears, which were falling drop by drop on her red tent and making it darker, she wailed: I wish someone had died, Oh God, your mother would die, Mah Begum, who didn’t see these days?

I was confused. A shiver fell on my body, I stood behind the door, my mother was holding my father’s clothes: Fear God and give him one of our eldest daughters. My father said: No, he wants Mah Begum, whose first wife is the same age as our other daughters, and he says he doesn’t want to be without a son… My mother wailed again: To hell. Why should we give our daughter to him?

My father had raised a lot of debt, maybe he borrowed from the Mullah, but the Mullah lives on the financial aid of the people?! And why me?

A week passed and they took me to Mullah’s house. My mother dressed me in white Glabton embroidered clothes. She put oil on my hair and braided my two hairs. My older sisters were just crying and cursing Mullah, and I was dumbfounded… Mullah’s mother, who was an old woman with a wrinkled face, put her hand on my head and said, “You will be my bride from today, and I will have many grandchildren for my son. Give birth!” And she said to my mother: This year will be a good year for you. You broke my son’s heart last year and you saw the result.

I had put my head on my grandmother’s soft knee and I was just looking into her eyes. There was nothing in her eyes, neither sadness nor regret. She just sighed and continued: “How can an 11-year-old girl live and marry a man who is 40 years older than her?” What does she understand? At first, I thought Mullah was punishing me for laughing at his bald head?! Then I thought I’ll be back home in two days, it’s a party. I used to play with Mullah’s girls during the day. We used to play from the farm to the house. They washed my clothes, I missed my father’s house; For the water pond and the smell of field grass.

Little by little, I realized that my house is there and Mullah is my husband. In the beginning, I was ashamed of him to go somewhere with him, and people pointed at me. Have you seen Mullah’s second wife? She is smaller than her little daughter. The following year, my first child was born, he was a boy. Mullah had become kinder to me, but I didn’t want his kindness. In my opinion, he was like an old dress that I had to wear regularly and I couldn’t separate him from myself.

About the Author:

Ameneh Narooi comes from Iran. She is the author of short stories. Her stories have been published in local magazines in Zahedan. She graduated with a bachelor’s degree in literature.

About the Editor and Translator:

 Jamileh Rigi graduated with a master’s degree in Sociology. So far, she has written real narratives about women in various domestic magazines. She has been teaching English for two years.