Fereshteh Cheraghi – Mahrokh(part one) (English)
**Chapter One: Regret**
As I reached the intersection, the light turned red. It was the thick of twilight, and shadows stretched long under the crimson blade of the sun. The sky was a tapestry of undulating reds and purples, creating an unparalleled scene from their mingling. It was as if an instrumental melody played, and I, captivated by this unique embrace, had forgotten the traffic and its chronic wounds.
A petite girl of about six or seven, with an armful of flowers, was weaving through the cars. Her oversized rubber shoes flopped as she moved, and she wore a loose, floral dress that hung awkwardly on her frail body. Her faded scarf was tightly knotted at the back of her head, and a bundle of untidy black hair was coiled at the center of her forehead. Watching her small stature as she tiptoed to offer flowers to the weary drivers returning from work, I rolled down my car window and called her over. The girl hurried to me and sweetly asked, “Hello miss, how many flowers should I give you?”
Staring into her dark eyes, underlined by long eyelashes, and at her small lips and nose framed by a round, dirt-smudged face, I impulsively brushed a lock of her hair away from her face. With a mischievous look, she said, “Miss, you are so beautiful.”
It felt as if my heart melted. I smiled, pinched her cheek between my thumb and forefinger, and said, “You little devil, you are prettier than me.”
“Your eyes are like marbles,” she replied.
“Marbles?”
“Yes, haven’t you ever played with marbles?”
“No.”
“Then you’ve missed half your life.”
I laughed out loud, pulling money from my purse, and said to her, “On air?” And laughed again.
The girl joined in the laughter, her cheeks dimpling deeply. I wanted to hug and kiss her, to press her against my chest and let my frozen yearnings thaw with the warmth of her being.
“The light will turn green soon, give me the flowers.”
“All of them?”
“Oh yes.”
“Yay!”
Her eyes lit up, and she screamed to her brother, who was bundling flowers at the corner and putting them into a bucket, “Brother, brother, hurry up, this lady with the marble eyes bought all our flowers!”
The boy, around twelve or thirteen with sun-beaten skin and a voice cracking with adolescence, approached us wearing a tattered straw hat. The fuzz of a new mustache was visible above his lip, and a few blackheads dotted his nose. I put the flowers on the seat and handed him eight hundred-toman bills. The boy stared at the bills, swallowed hard, kissed them, pressed them to his forehead, and in a moment of bliss, said, “God bless you, lady, I’m at your service, by God, you’re a real man, let me kiss your hand.”
I drew back my hand and asked, “Do you go to school?”
“I used to, but now I don’t. My dad’s in the addiction camp. I have to work because I’m the oldest. We’re a family of five; a mom, two younger brothers, and the sister you see here. And kind of, we’re all working. Mom’s over there, selling loofahs across the street.”
“Where’s your house?”
“Near Behesht Zahra.”
I followed the direction he was pointing and saw a stout woman with a black scarf and a floral chador tied around her waist sitting beside a loofah stand, bouncing a child on her lap while another boy, about three or four, stood nearby holding a bundle of fortune-telling cards.
The light turned green, and the drivers, anxious from waiting behind the pedestrian line and revving like rally racers at the start of a race, burst forward as if horses freed from their reins, neighing wildly. I pressed the clutch to change gears and told the boy, “Buy some shoes for your sister; hers are too big, she could trip.”
“Lady, you’re a saint, bless you. May God fill your pockets.”
The frustrated driver behind me, waiting impatiently for the green light, honked his horn, leaned out his window as he passed, and shouted, “Move that junk, you sheep!”
So engrossed was I in watching those children that I didn’t notice the seconds ticking by, startled into action only by the honk from the car behind me as I crossed on the green light. The innocent face of the girl and her desperate gaze, her chapped, dry lips, her unkempt hair, her small, rough hands devoid of the softness of childhood, and instead clutching a workload to her chest; the sun-beaten face of the boy and his forced maturity
, all cut through my heart like a dagger.
These were children molded by hardship, growing taller behind red lights, their childhoods sacrificed at crossroads—a deep-seated tragedy forming amidst the streets and refuse, in an era that trumpets equality and bright futures for all children. Alas! Where will the fate of these victims of poverty be written? And how will the scales of justice balance in which system?
The sun dipped low, and the sky darkened. A heavy flow of cars from east to west on Hemmat Highway had caused a severe traffic jam. In the chaotic sprawl of Tehran, part of the citizens’ lives are consumed by traffic’s relentless grind, a knot no one seems able to untie. The continuous honking, thumping music, and droning engines were pounding in my head. My migraine flared up. My temples throbbed; this cursed traffic each evening wrecks my day. By nightfall, I would return home, a mere husk.
I swallowed a painkiller, which I popped like candy, with a sip of water. Cars moved inches at a time. An ambulance, sirens blaring, sliced through the lanes, and opportunistic drivers quickly followed in its wake to get ahead.
My thoughts lingered on the working children when a Hyundai signaled and pulled up beside me. It was the same driver who had called me a sheep earlier. A middle-aged man with a bald head and spectacles looked at me. I immediately rolled down my window and honked to get his attention. He noticed me and gestured for me to lower my window. I had a response ready for someone who had insulted me. He rolled down his window, and with a nod and a wave, he asked what I wanted. Holding a bunch of flowers towards him, I said, “Hello sir, these flowers are for you.”
His expression softened, and a crooked smile formed at the corner of his mouth. He stretched a little to take the flowers and cheekily asked, “Are you distributing charity?”
“No, dear, these flowers are from a sheep.”
His smile vanished, and he stared at me, bewildered. I rolled up my window. He honked a few times, but I paid him no mind.
“I’m a sheep, not a fool.”
Various thoughts spun in my head. The black eyes and lovely smile of the flower-selling girl appeared before my eyes again. I remembered her words, “You’ve missed half your life,” and my lips curled into a smile, my laughter filling the small space of my car, echoing loudly.
I repeated to myself several times, “You’ve missed half your life,” thinking, “This clever little girl knows what she’s talking about…” My tongue rolled in my mouth, my lips pursed. I placed my hand on my stomach.
The ringtone of my phone chimed, and I listened.
“Mahrokh, I’ll be home late tonight, I’m stuck with a project, take care of yourself.”
How dry and emotionless the repeated late arrivals of Milad due to his ‘projects’ annoyed me. But it was my own fault. I had sown the wind and now I must reap the whirlwind.
I stared at the flowers on the seat, picked up a red rose, and smelled it. I closed my eyes.
“Dear, close your eyes. Come on, quickly.”
“Oh, come on, what do you want now? Can’t you see I’m writing? You’ll distract me, I’ll lose my train of thought.”
“Okay, just a minute. My phone’s alarm just signaled it’s time for love.”
I closed my eyes, but when I opened them, I saw only shadows and the scattered red roses on the seat. Love and desire, in my tumultuous heart, were nothing more than a dream—a dream as painful and infected as an open wound.
Either I was in my studio, immersed in paint, canvas, and my students, or sitting at my desk in solitude, with a restless and troubled mind, sketching out my characters. Each time, Milad would massage my shoulders, wrap his hands around my neck, and plant a kiss on my face.
“What’s the theme this time, princess of fairies?” And at that moment, irritable and frazzled, I would push his hand away.
“Ouch, look! Everything in my head just flew out.”
“But my beautiful love, look at your eyes, they’re so hollow. You’ve been in the studio since morning, and at night, you’re up writing until midnight. Aren’t you tired? Even your characters deserve a break. These honey eyes of yours are screaming for Milad to save them from Mahrokh.”
The girl’s voice echoed in my ears, “Your eyes are like marbles.” I stared at my own honey-colored eyes in the car mirror, brushing aside a strand of my chestnut hair that had fallen over my high forehead.
My late aunt used to say, “People’s fates are written on their foreheads.”
Regardless of how many of us are prisoners of our own destinies’ ifs and buts.
I placed my hand back on my stomach. My body felt hot, my chin trembled. For a moment, I felt lost in a fog of darkness. Faces emerged in the mist, paused, and then faded. The steering wheel trembled in my hands. In the corners of my mind, a fire reignited. A multitude of mysterious words paraded through the labyrinth of my restless mind, whistling in my ears.
Flame… Fire… Childhood… The darkness of imagination… Nightmare… Violence…
Something crumbled inside me. My heart struggled in my chest. What was this feeling that had overtaken me? At the entrances of my imagination, I saw a toddler and flames licking upwards. Again, the absurd anxieties and the noises that buzzed in my head approached me.
Milad frequently reproached me, saying, “You’re paranoid, Mahrokh. You need to see a doctor for psychoanalysis. We go through this every night. You sweat profusely, scream, and tremble. What’s wrong with you, Mahrokh? What happened? I’m tired of this. You won’t go to the doctor, and you won’t tell me what hurts you.”
But I no longer had days or nights. These delusions rang in my brain. Sometimes, I felt on the verge of madness. The red-eyed, fiery face of my father appeared before me. His bushy, joined eyebrows furrowed with that hateful look terrified me.
“Didn’t I tell you to bring a pitcher of water, and to put ice in it? What is this nonsense, airhead girl?”
“But father, the pitcher…”
“Don’t talk back! What about the pitcher?”
In a flash, he hurled a glass of water at me, hitting my head, causing blood to spurt.
My long, chestnut, wavy hair had become his tool, something he’d grab for any reason, winding it around his large, broad fingers, dragging me around the courtyard and then hauling me toward the basement. My breath would catch in my chest. My entire body trembled, and I curled up from the pain.
“No one is allowed to open this door, or they will see the worst of it.”
I couldn’t understand why my father hated me so much.
The basement had become a sanctuary of my loneliness and longing. I owe my painting to that basement. With pieces of chalk scraped from the damp basement walls, I drew on the rusted iron door. That iron door served as my classroom blackboard. I’d play teacher, adopting the posture and demeanor of an instructor. The first time I was imprisoned there, I was just five years old, all because I was playing in the courtyard with my younger brother and making him laugh. My mother sat beside the pond on a weathered wooden stool, beating clothes in a copper basin, humming a tune under her breath.
*Watoonam heh watoonam hee joomeh aawee
Per joomet tash garet mar de ra to khooyee
Sar kashidam d hoonshoon deem khoosh bardeh
Zelfiyaash de gardanesh chee mareheh mardah*
Her voice was beautiful. When she sang lullabies to my brother and me, the canary in its cage would stop singing. She always wore a kerchief and tied a floral chador around her waist. If someone unexpectedly knocked on the door, she would quickly untie the chador from her waist and throw it over her head so that only her nose showed beneath it. My mother was not allowed to leave the house alone. My father’s rage was deep-rooted; suspicious, cynical, and foul-mouthed. When he screamed and cursed, I would cover my ears and hide behind the curtains in the corner of the room, crouching under the red-checkered blanket that covered the beds. My father would swing his belt in the air and bring it down on my mother’s body. Her moans filled the room, and I, hidden behind the curtain, quietly wept, biting my nails.
“I saved you from that barn and brought you here; you smelled of dung, woman. I brought you from the back of beyond, and now you think you’re someone important. There were plenty of pretty, decorated girls around me. Do you know why I chose you, you pock-marked woman? So that no one would look at you and get ideas. You’re hardly a cubit tall, and you’re built like a barrel. Now that you’re respectable for me, you want a washing machine. What good are these hands then?”
And he would twist her arms.
“These hands can’t wash a couple of pieces of clothing?”
The laughter of my brother mixed with the clanging of the washing basin thrown against the wall of the courtyard, and the clothes scattering in all directions. A twisted smile, born of distorted amusement, spread across my lips. My father’s large, greasy hands
, stained with engine oil, swept across my face. In an instant, I felt as if my eyes had popped out of their sockets. He twisted my ear, dragged me across the ground like a lion drags its prey, swearing and cursing as he took me towards the basement.
The basement, separated from the courtyard by a few steps, always had its rust-eaten iron door locked. One day, as I sat on the edge of the pond, speaking to the red fish, I heard sounds from the basement. Through the frosted glass of the wooden window, I saw a shadow move. I was petrified, but suddenly I ran screaming towards the veranda. My mother rushed towards me. I told her I had heard something and seen a shadow.
“God forbid, child, what are you talking about?”
“B… God… I… myself… saw… I’m telling the truth.”
“You mean, the better ones are down there.”
“Who are these better ones? What do they look like?”
“I haven’t seen them, but I’ve heard that some have an eye in the middle of their forehead and hooves instead of feet.”
“Hooves? What are those?”
“Have you seen a sheep or cow’s foot? They’re called hooves.”
I hugged my mother out of fear. The thought of a creature with an eye in its forehead and hooves for feet terrified me.
“Don’t be scared, they don’t bother children.”
The toilet in the courtyard was opposite the basement. At night, terrified of the darkness, the noises from the basement, and the ‘better ones,’ I wouldn’t venture out, and sometimes I’d have accidents because of it, for which I was often punished. My father would send me out into the courtyard at night, against my will, telling me:
“They don’t put toilets in these places just to have them. They’re there for you to use.”
… My mother pleaded with him to let me be.
“Feizollah, for God’s sake, let her go. What do you want with this silly girl? She’s afraid of the basement. Let her be.”
With one move, he kicked her towards the pond.
“I’ve told you a hundred times, no noise when I’m sleeping. But it doesn’t sink in. I wanted to rest in peace, but you’ve brought me back to life.”
He threw me into the semi-dark basement and locked the door. One side of my face burned, and it felt as if my ear was hanging down to my neck. Pain circled around my head, ears, and face. The smell of the basement’s damp struck me. I crouched in a corner. My teeth clattered, and I closed my eyes, terrified of confronting the ‘better ones.’ I was shaking like a leaf. After a few minutes, I came to my senses. My brain kicked into gear, and I began to sob. The choppy sounds of my crying echoed in the damp, dark space of the basement and resonated in my head. Frightened, I wet myself, and urine trickled down my leg and onto the cement floor. I heard the struggle between fear and my heart, and the thumping of its beat shook my ribcage. With a weak and choked voice, I pleaded and banged on the iron door with my small fists.
“Father, I’ve messed up, I won’t play anymore. I promise I won’t make noise. Father, I made a mistake… it’s dark here. The ‘better ones’ are here, I’m scared.”
Suddenly, I felt something move over my head. I placed my hands over my eyes and screamed as loudly as I could, but my voice bounced off the walls of the basement and returned to me. After a few minutes, I cautiously opened my eyes. A dim light penetrated from the window. Chunks of plaster had fallen off the damp walls and turned to mud. Spider webs stretched across three corners of the wall, and the sound of something scraping, like nails being dragged across an object, reached my ears. A dirty, dusty curtain hung by a thin thread on a nail, covering the wooden window. A pile of trash and debris was heaped in the corner of the basement room. I looked around for the hoofed, one-eyed creature. The air, heavy and fear-inducing from the location, caused large beads of sweat to form on my face. I didn’t know how many hours I was there before I experienced the first nightmare of my life.
Spiders emerged from the layers of webs. The entire ceiling was covered with black spiders that spun quickly, hanging from every strand of their spiral webs, their bodies growing larger. They stared at me with their compound, colorful eyes, and I, motionless and silent, watched them, as if turned to stone. My thoughts echoed loudly, resonating in my elongated ears.
“Where are the hoofed, one-eyed ones? Maybe these are the ones with multiple legs and eyes.
Mother said she hadn’t seen them, only heard about them.”
The spiders spun webs between me and the door. The webs were sticky and wet, but they quickly dried and hardened, trapping me among them. My ears rang, my face burned. Suddenly, the sound of a man’s laughter echoed in my head, and a fire flared up before my eyes. A woman, like a moth, spun in the midst of the flames. It was a spectacle of flames and tongues of fire, and the woman’s screams passed through the sparks.
“Don’t come closer, child.”
Her body merged with the flames.
The cascading locks of her hair swirled around her. Sparks from the fire burned through the webs, and I felt the heat.
A sharp light struck my eye, and a severe pain coursed through my face and ear.
“I’ve come for you, Mahrokh, I’m here, don’t be afraid. Mother would die for you.”
I stood motionless and dumbfounded in the middle of the basement, my trousers wet and shaking. My gaze settled on a corner of the wall. A one-eyed, hoofed creature smiled at me.
The roar of my father’s voice, loud enough to deafen the heavens, came from the courtyard.
“Who told you to open this damned door, you wretched woman?”
“Oh Feizollah, this innocent child, her spirit is broken. Why are you so cruel? Look, she can’t speak, she’s gone mute. Oh God, Mahrokh, say something.”
And I gritted my teeth, my tongue felt heavy in my mouth, and my eyes swirled in their sockets. My legs gave way, and I fainted to the ground. My father’s voice tolled like a church bell in the depths of my mind.
“To hell with it, I don’t want to see her anymore. The bastard, her eyes look just like that whore’s.”
I placed my hand on my stomach. It felt as if there was a fluttering pulse under my fingers. I took a deep breath. Like someone hanging by a thread, I was suspended between earth and sky, desperate and entangled, caught between being and non-being, between staying and leaving. I felt a strange sensation. I was lost in the layers of my life. Which regret was burning me? The childhood spent in the shadow of fear from my father? Or the happy days I had with Milad.
“Milad, how long have you been standing there watching me?”
“I don’t know, but when I look at you, I don’t count the minutes. I wish I could be the figure in your painting and just watch you in silence for hours. Actually… actually, I wish I were a sculptor and you were my model, and I could sculpt every detail of you with my own hands, then stand back and proudly look at what I’ve created. It’s as if God spared nothing in carving your figure.”
Milad frequently doted on me, drawing me into his embrace. Lost and found in the shelter of his arms, I found myself. Milad was handsome and tall. His sleek black hair fell over his forehead, and his penetrating eyes could settle in the soul of anyone. Even in simple attire, he stood out. He spoke quietly, exuding confidence. He was charming and engaging. Just like those men who are known to be heartbreakers. The day I saw him at the graduation party, our eyes met and my heart fluttered. In that moment of eye contact, my soul intertwined with his. My breath smelled of love. My body temperature rose so much that even Sara noticed and teased, “Hey, what’s going on? I see your heart is thumping.”
“Sara, stop talking nonsense.”
“If I don’t know you, who does? How many years have we been friends? You, who wouldn’t give the time of day to a thousand guys chasing you, what happened all of a sudden that you’re blushing at the sight of Milad?”
“Sara, you’re out of your mind. What do you mean I’m blushing?”
But she was right. My heart had trembled, and his gaze had burned my eyes.
Something was stirring inside me. Every time I saw him, my heart pumped blood so fiercely, it raced through my veins. I had graduated in painting, and he was an architectural engineer. We quickly fell in love and whispered our affections under the moonlight, our eyes spoiling for each other’s heart. I was reborn like Leili, with my back to the shadows of imagination and facing the sun of his gaze.
“Doesn’t the mechanic have someone of his own?”
My father would say this, and I would lower my head and reply, “As you say…”
He always had the last word. We all obeyed him. I started working at Abdullah’s mechanic shop. Taqi also worked there. He had only completed third grade and was a year older than me
.
“It’s enough for me just to know how to read and write; the rest is useless.”
Taqi was stocky and of average height. He was grumpy and opinionated. Sometimes we fought over trivial matters, which ended with my apology. In the evenings, I found excuses to leave the mechanic shop so I could run into Rana on her way home. She and the other village girls went to Old Kashur Khanum’s house for Quran lessons and returned home just before the Maghrib prayer. I hid behind the poplar trees along the riverbank, pacing back and forth, restless just for a glance at Rana. Rana was about ten years old. Her father, a mason, had died from a fall at a construction site before she was born, and her mother had passed away during childbirth. Rana lived with her grandmother.
One day, foolishly, I told Taqi about my feelings for her, and he mocked me.
“Come on, what are you talking about? Think about making a living; melons need water to grow. You’re not in love, and now that you are, you want the affection of a destitute girl?”
“What do you mean?”
“Oh come on, you’re so naive. This girl is an orphan with no one to look after her.”
“So what? What do I care about her family?”
“That’s what I’m saying. She has no father, no protector, she’s on her own.”
I couldn’t understand his point. Wasn’t love always a bit of a mess? And I was willing to embrace that mess.
With all due respect,
Farhad, 15th of Mordad, 1402
The letter ended, and I was bewildered and astonished as I reread it. Who was Farhad? Did I know him? Why was there no return address on the envelope? Why had he left no trace of himself?
From the study, the sound of a tar being played came. Milad was playing and humming softly. His voice seemed to pluck at the strings of my heart. How tired I am…
*Sometimes I dream of leaving this place, spending all my time in dreams,
Waiting forever, the sorrow of today and tomorrow is mine,
Neither my destiny will change, nor is fleeing within my reach,
I’m tired of this pain, of this longing that’s with me.*
*1-With you, I am, oh you in the blue shirt,
Your shirt caught fire, are you not awake?
We drew near their house, I saw he was sleeping,
His hair around his neck, dead like a snake.
*2-Toilet
*3-Regret Song – Shakila
Fereshteh Cheraghi
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