Rah va Rahavard (An Experience-Narrative of a Life) by Mohammad Kianoush-Rad – Part Sixteen

Rah va Rahavard
An Experience-Narrative of a Life
Mohammad Kianoush-Rad
Part Sixteen

**The Story of Atefeh**

They took me to the place called "Gacha." Far from the city, amidst the ups and downs and the rocky and uneven hills, on the other side of the Dez River. The western side of the river toward the south. A place very far from the city and the inhabitants.

A place where women prostituted, and men wandered. Some of those women invited us, and some begged us to go toward them. I was left wondering where this place was.

I went to Dezful for the wedding of the daughter of one of our relatives. I had never lived in Dezful. It was an opportunity to properly tour the ancient and beautiful city of Dezful. In childhood I had gone to Dezful once or twice with the family, and this time I was going with Rasoul, one of the boys of the family. Nothing remained in my memory from the past.

Uncle Majid's house was in the "Sarmidan" neighborhood. On the western side of the street there were also Lors. At that time, from after the mosque of the edge of the moat to the end of the street, there were Lors. The "Siahpushan" neighborhood was Lor and Bakhtiari—the Gharibvands and Jalilvands—and the Bakhtiaris who had come from Azna and Aligudarz to Dezful and settled. Our friend, Dr. Amir Hossein Shiravi, is also from the Jalilvands. In the "Qaleh" neighborhood too, my sister's husband, Morteza Bannajjar, lived.

One must see Dezful and experience walking in the alleys and back alleys and the dead ends and passing under the sabat—sa'bat—and going to the "Kat" and beside the Dez River to understand what feeling and quality the city of Dezful gives a person.

One of the most beautiful places in Dezful is the "Shavadun," which can only be seen in this city and Shushtar. The Shavadun, unlike the "Shabestan," was a large room deep in the ground.

With Rasoul, after descending fifty or sixty steps into the depth of the earth, we reached a large room. Without a quilt and blanket, even in summer one could not sleep there.

At night I slept in the mysterious Shavadun. It was a little frightening to me, especially when they would say jokingly or seriously that there are jinn in the Shavadun. At night, because of the cold of the air, I was forced to go under the quilt.

Rasoul was three or four years older than me, and I was in the first or second year of high school. On the very first day I went to visit "Sabz Qaba" and "Hizqil Nabi."

I was in Dezful for four days. The wedding ceremony was time-consuming. Abdolhossein said: "Here a wedding has preliminary ceremonies like 'Neshun va Nun,' 'Baleh Borun,' 'Shart va Shorut,' 'Zanun Gardun,' 'Katun va Nun,' 'Hana Bandun,' 'Nun Charbi,' and so on. After the wedding too there are many ceremonies like 'Seh Ruzeh,' 'Ri Goshun,' 'Hafteh Bararun,' and so on."

It was the afternoon of the wedding day. They had taken the groom to the public bath. We waited. In front of the bath they were playing the toshmal. They called it "dar hammumi" and it was something in the manner of six and eight. A happy and dance-inducing style. The groom came out. With the instrument and drum, we accompanied him to the wedding venue.

The bride and groom were sitting on chairs and the women and men were dancing around them. They were saying "Azizam Lor khoram dourt." "Shah Gol" was playing the dayereh. "Nim Agha" played the tar, and then "Mostafa Filsuf" played the flute. The weddings had moved from the tradition of the dayereh to the modern mode of tar and flute playing.

The bride's father was respected by everyone. He always took a sip. Everyone knew. He was a good man. Whatever he was, I loved him. Not because he was our relative, but because he was a honorable person.

The day after the wedding, Abdolhossein, Rasoul's friend, told him: "Let us go and take a tour today." They took me with them. After touring the traditional bazaar, Rasoul said let us go to the cinema, and Abdolhossein whispered something in Rasoul's ear. Rasoul laughed and said: "Let us go, yes let us go, no, it is no problem."

I do not know where we went. It was a very far place. We got out and walked a distance in the desert. We reached beside the mountain-like hills. I said it must be a sightseeing place.

I was astonished. That place was known as "Gacha." Women sitting and calling men toward themselves. A rug under their feet and a cloth placed on a stick to cast shade. Young women with smiles and hand gestures were calling us: "Come, come here."

A thin, dying dog wandered around the shadows. Flies buzzed and flew wandering here and there. Beside each woman was a pot of water on which a film of dust had settled.

The weak breeze had become the confidant of "Gacha." It scattered the stench of urine and vomit in the air. An exhibition of the poverty and misery of helpless and shelterless women. Their only capital was their broken, tired, and tangled bodies.

Some of the women were not inviting but begging for a man to go toward them. Begging to sell themselves and to obtain a piece of bread.

I remembered my father's advice when he had said: "Some people, under the name of going to the cinema, go somewhere else. Be careful where you go."

Upset, I said: "Why did we come here? Why did you not say you wanted to come here?" They were older than me. I could not express my anger. But they saw my frown. I said: "I am going back." I returned. They came after me. Abdolhossein said: "Well, nothing has happened, we came to see what is going on. There is nothing. We did not want to do anything either. I just wanted Rasoul to see this place too. These women work here. Their work is this."

I became upset and turned away. I said nothing more. Sometimes silence is sharper than speaking. I only said: "We were supposed to tour the city, not for you to bring me here."

The next morning I went to the Triangle Square. From there I set off on foot until I reached the Ahvaz garage, near the Old Bridge, and returned to Ahvaz by minibus. Rasoul, for years, whenever he saw me, would treat me with a laugh indicating shame and regret.

Years after that distressing experience, I wrote the story "Baskul, the Shadow of the Leafless Tree," which was published in the short story collection "The Best Time to Die."

When I was writing the suffering and deprivation of the story's protagonist, Atefeh, I said to myself: "If I were in God's place, I would take all women to paradise."

To be continued...