Simurgh

by Mohammad Hakima

 

On the morning of her seventh birthday, the third of Shahrivar, Zainab donned the hijab for the first time. She removed the plain, black veil from her wardrobe and faced the bedroom mirror, composed herself, carefully tying the ends around her silky, dark hair. This would be part of her uniform for school in the coming Fall. She tucked in the few frivolous strands that were splayed across her forehead and straightened the edges of the veil to accentuate her soft cheeks. A wholesome, tidy reflection emerged. There, staring back at her, was the proper image of a woman. This change from child to adult made her think of a rapidly blossoming flower bud. How strange that a simple piece of cloth strapped to her head could produce such a vivid effect. The fact that she appeared to be a well-rounded and mature individual amused her and made her giggle. She thought of those educated women on the news who sat behind desks and spoke confidently about political turmoil in Tehran. 

Sitting next to the wadded blanket at the foot of her bed, she looked squarely into the mirror atop her dresser, and she could see a grand auditorium with her at the center of the stage. In front of her, hundreds of audience members sit in rows, staring intently at her. Some stragglers pad quietly down the center aisle shuffling to their seats. She can make out the eager expressions of the guests in the front row in their suits and ties, combed hair, some with their legs crossed. On the stage, to either side of her and under the admiring beam of the spotlight, were several of her university colleagues, women of knowledge and propriety, all seated behind a conference table covered with notepads, papers, a steel pitcher, and crystal glasses. At any moment, it will be her turn to speak. In fact, without any further introduction, since a distinguished scholar such as herself did not need it, the hostess of the symposium comes towards her and with a humble smile and an outstretched arm hands her the microphone. The crowd launches into applause. With bated breath, Zainab rises, bringing the hairbrush from the top of the dresser close to her face and speaks: 

“Thank you very much, thank you, thank you! What a wonderful honor it is, being here, speaking to all of you today…” She hesitates. How much flattery is required? It doesn’t matter, really; she must continue. She clears her throat, trying to sound confident. “Now, the issue, ladies and gentlemen…the issue, here, of course…of interest to us all…” She paces back and forth. She hears a few whispers, a cough, the faint gurgles of a baby in the back row. One of the scholars behind her exhales, lifting the steel pitcher from the table, and pouring ice-water into a glass. Everyone is waiting for Zainab to expound upon “the issue.” But, what is the issue? What did adults even talk about? She hadn’t prepared for this moment. If only she could press pause on her vision, run over to her mother’s bookshelf, grab a hefty book, and memorize a few grownup sentences to recite. But this would only delay and disrupt the flow of her imagination. The people are waiting for her to speak, growing impatient to the point of dissipating from her mind. Already, she sees the heads of the audience members in the back rows blurring into the wall.

A sobering realization sets in. The commencement of any dialogue must be prefaced with that profound exordium: Bismillah al-Rahman al-Rahim! In The Name of God, The Compassionate, The Merciful. She had completely forgotten to utter this crucial phrase when passed the microphone. She was a pious woman, and this was a social obligation. At all times, He was watching her.

A shudder ran through her, and she quickly placed the hairbrush back on the dresser. With this veil, He was closer than ever. What if He were here, in her bedroom, at this very moment? She wheeled her head wildly about, expecting to witness the majestic face of Allah hovering before her, but there was no one in sight. The hairs on the back of her neck stood on end, as if reaching to beg pardon for their sins. She inspected beneath her bed, peeped inside the wardrobe. Where could He be? The air around her grew stale. Streaks of morning sunlight lancing through the open blinds now began to dim, and a shadow fell upon the wall. The Almighty swept through her and everything that she had envisioned – the seats, the walls, the audience, the auditorium – was sent skittering across her mind. The Hijab had so magnified the thought of Him that a hardened lump formed in her throat. She looked into the mirror, concentrating on her mouth and tried to speak her name aloud. But her tongue only twitched uncontrollably, and her lips grew stiff. No intelligible sounds came forth. She opened her mouth to examine it, everything seemed in order, but when she tried again to form words, it felt as if her throat were clogged with a pebble. Nothing came out except a warm gust of air fogging up the glass. Zainab thought perhaps she was just nervous, the loss of her voice only momentary. She cleared her throat, opened her mouth and tried to say “hello,” but she could still feel the weighty presence of that lump blocking her voice. Something was wrong. Had the Hijab turned her into a mute?

With her index finger, she tried to trace her name in the fog on the mirror, but even the first letter refused her summons. Her finger quivered as she struggled to create the first swirl of the letter Z in Farsi. It was impossible. She tried English – the language whose alphabet she had memorized throughout kindergarten – but the zigzagging motion caused her finger to veer off course swooping in a slanted line hard against the glass. Was writing denied her too?

As she stood helpless, a sense of panic welled up within her. Was this the way that everyone felt while wearing the hijab for the first time? Did others lose their voice, their ability to speak, to write? Was she the only one? How did all these women wear their veils and go about their business, as though it were nothing? After all, Maman, a high school Persian literature teacher, wore her hijab every day. Zainab recalled times when she had accompanied her mother to work and had watched her confidently speaking to students in the classroom or in the hallway. The recollection made Zainab feel as though these first few moments of her womanhood had gone completely awry. It was apparent to her that she wasn’t able to handle the responsibilities of being Allah’s faithful servant. Perhaps she didn’t even deserve to devote herself to Him. She heard footsteps coming up the stairs, then a knock at the door. Maman poked her head in.

“Mashallah! So beautiful!” she said, smiling at her daughter. Zainab smirked and opened her mouth to reply, but to no avail.

“It looks so good! Everyone will be stunned when they see you today.” 

Desperate to regain her voice, Zainab untied the knot of her veil, letting it slip off her head. “Why did you take it off?” Maman said.

Right then, Alhamdulillah, her tongue regained its agility, her throat cleared. She could speak! 

“I don’t like it.” Zainab wanted to spill more of the truth of her predicament but feared ruining her mother’s joy.  

“Why?” Maman asked. “It brings out your face so nicely.”

“It’s uncomfortable.”

“You’ll get used to it eventually.”

“But it’s weird. It makes me dizzy.” Zainab thought it strange to describe the sensation of God looming over her as “dizziness,” but, she could think of no other word.

“What happens if I never wear it?” she asked.

“Why wouldn’t you?” Maman frowned. “You don’t want to grow up?”

“It just gets in the way of stuff.”

“Let me tell you something,” Maman leaned forward, “some of these girls your age are already memorizing half the Quran and wearing full chadors. Just last week, on the news, they were showing this little girl at the mosque leading Friday Prayer with at least fifty women behind her!”

“Do I have to do that too?”

“You’re still learning how to cover your head.”

“What if I’m not meant to wear it?”

“Of course you’re meant to! Allah has a plan for all His children.” 

Zainab couldn’t understand why her distress was a necessary part of His plan. It seemed unfair of Him to encourage random children on the news to be lauded for their steady progress in piety. It wouldn’t even surprise her if her own mother were secretly wishing for a different daughter, one who was more enthusiastically devout.

“But why does everyone have to wear this? It’s annoying.”

“It’s the law.” 

“Am I going to jail if I don’t wear it?”

“No, not necessarily,” Maman said, “but you’re thinking about this the wrong way. This is about you and your connection to Allah. You’re at an age where it’s important to start thinking about your beliefs.”

Zainab frowned, unconvinced. She wished that she could prove to her mother that she was just as devout and intelligent as any other child prodigy on television.

Maman reminded her of family friends they had in the government who spoke of the hijab as though it were law, but that Zainab and her mother were not like that. The veil, she said, shouldn’t be thought of as an obligation but rather as a maturing of her faith. Zainab then recalled two people, an old man and his wife, who had been invited for dinner last year. The woman had been covered from head to toe, except for her face, as though she were attending Friday prayer. The man had refused to shake Maman’s hand, because, as Maman had later explained, he viewed it as improper to shake the hand of a woman to whom he wasn’t married. Zainab had never enjoyed these people’s company because her mother would always adopt a serious demeanor around them. She would caution Zainab to be on her best behavior, to sit still and to stop wiggling around on the couch during conversations.

As Maman stood against the doorframe, adjusting her glasses, Zainab held the veil straight out in front of herself, a curtain to conceal her displeasure. Never again would she be allowed to display her hair in public freely.

“Anyway,” said Maman, “I came up here to ask you a favor. Can you run down to the store and grab a bottle of milk for breakfast, please?” Zainab only nodded. She didn’t want to go into Agha Jamshid’s convenience store, how would she ask for milk? Silent, she would have to point and mumble. Agha Jamshid, the owner, would lean behind the counter in a stained wife-beater, stare at her in a daze, fiddling with his mustache. How could he begin to understand Zainab’s strange behavior, a shopkeeper who only lazed around the store staring absently at the television or dozing in his chair. 

The telephone rang in the living room. Maman thanked Zainab, handing her some money, and went to answer it. On her way out, Zainab paused by her mother’s bedroom to glance at the majestic bookcase packed with row upon row of novels and anthologies of poetry. How often had she seen her mother hunched over in the armchair by the bed, leafing through pages and pages of dense text, marking key passages for reference in class the next day? On the nightstand, Zainab noticed one book in particular, The Conference of the Birds by Farid al-Din Attar. Colorful sticky notes poked out from several of its pages– apple green and plum purple and cherry red – like a multitude of tongues stained by every lollipop flavor. Throughout years of use, the book had grown tattered and worn, the artfully embossed image of birds in flight fading on its linen cover. Last year, on a trip to Mashhad on their way to mosque, Maman had pointed out a similar image of the birds on a mural near Mashhad, that holy city of devotion. Zainab saw not one but thirty birds, their feathers, tails, necks and beaks bafflingly intertwined, like the twisted vines that cover the facade of a derelict building. The tangle of birds had formed one large organism, the Simurgh, the gargantuan mythological creature with wings and lion’s claws, whose amorphous face could resemble that of any animal. With its long, slender tongue lolling out, it first appeared to be a dog, but upon closer inspection of its eyes and nose, she detected that it might be a person. Although she had heard that the Simurgh was a benevolent bird, she could not come to terms with the fact that it was sometimes said to devour human beings. When Zainab had mentioned this fact, Maman, not wanting to linger long by the mural for fear of missing prayer, ignored her question, and tightened her chador quickly leading them away to the mosque. 

Zainab picked up the book and flipped it open. She gazed upon a highlighted verse, taking her time to read it carefully, but she couldn’t quite grasp its meaning. So she read it aloud.

How can a moth flee fire

When fire contains its ultimate desire?

She shut the book. It upset her to think of such a beautiful creature as a moth suddenly burning to a crisp. How could such torment be desirable? Such quotes like these never made sense to her. She returned the book to the nightstand next to the framed wedding photograph of her parents. In it, Maman and Baba are seated next to one another at the table in front of the Sofreh, the delicately arranged ceremonial wedding spread composed of a handheld mirror, three candles, two eggs, wild rice, salt, black tea, poppy seeds, frankincense, and a neat stack of sangak. Maman’s legs are tucked to the side, her grin infectious, her head leaning against Baba’s stiff shoulder. His smile, the subtle expression of joy of an Air Force man, was always encumbered by that bristling mustache. Perched beside the frame was a wooden model airplane that he had whittled into an F-4 fighter jet, the kind that he had piloted during the final years of the War. She picked up the wooden jet, held it aloft and with pfoo-pfooing sounds, she flew the plane over the photograph of her parents, above the metal spindle at the corner of the bed, and the empty expanse of soft carpet, and back towards the landing strip of the smooth surface of her mother’s dresser. She uttered the word, “Baba,” and waited for the word to attach itself to her father’s image. It was the first time in years that she had said his name aloud, and it discomforted her that she could still say it with such ease, as though he were right there, sitting on the bed, sipping his tea and reading his newspaper. She sighed, put the airplane back to the nightstand and went downstairs. She strapped on her shoes at the front door and heard her mother on the phone.

“Yes, thank you so much! She’s seven now. Started wearing her veil today… the school uniform.” The television in the living room aired the morning news, and the anchorwoman in a cream-colored hijab discussed the effects of the Iran-Iraq war on the dwindling economy of Tehran. With a pang of envy, Zainab wondered how the woman was able to speak so comfortably with a veil as though it enhanced the woman’s powers of speech. It was hard to believe that anyone else, especially of her family or friends, could become muted by the hijab. 

Zainab shut the apartment door behind her and passed through the corridor to the front of the building. At the threshold, she donned her veil, but suddenly her lips grew rigid, and her tongue like a piece of wood plunked to the floor of her mouth. Outside, the narrow street lay barren. She walked briskly and heard the plaintive cooing of pigeons on the telephone poles, the distant whirring of engines in the intersection, the faint purl of running water in the roadside gutters. She passed compact neighboring apartments, their balconies adorned with large potted plants, laundry hung between them on clotheslines, and patterned rugs slung over their railings. The sweet smell of baklava and zoolbia drifted through the air from the bakery down the street, and closer to the intersection, she could make out the savory scent of koobideh from the kebab place nearby. On the road, there was a deflated plastic football striped purple and white next to a piece of chalk used to draw the penalty box. There were two bricks used as goalposts. She was there when the boys had snatched the bricks from the nearby construction site, ignoring the helmeted workers who yelled at them from the planks above and flung cigarettes at them. The sidewalk was marked by tire treads from the Kurdish street vendor’s cart that trundled along every morning. The vendor peddled stale bread, cartons of sour milk, dented pots and pans, and grubby playthings snatched from inattentive kids. 

She remembered last summer, when she had run outside to play football with the neighborhood boys. That afternoon, the vendor had sold them a shabby pocket-knife with a cheap blade claiming the knife had been used by soldiers in the War and made in America. Kamal, Agha Jamshid’s ten-year-old son, was intrigued and purchased it. The oldest of the children, it was he who often instigated pranks, pestered smaller children, and drew up devilish schemes. The giggling boys had sat on the curb, passing the knife around and pretending to stab one another, but Zainab had noticed that none of the boys had actually had the mettle to flip open the blade. When she asked to see the knife, Kamal told them not to give it to her. He claimed that girls were incapable of handling dangerous objects. The others started laughing at Zainab. When she insisted that she knew how to use a knife and was braver than any of them, Kamal challenged her to demonstrate her skills by slitting open one of their two plastic footballs. The boys had typically taken one ball and stuffed it inside of another in order to create a firmer, more durable football to play with. Zainab had never brandished anything more than a butter knife, but she sensed that the boastful boys were afraid of the blade. Grabbing the pocketknife, she held it out in front of them. She then raised her eyebrow and grinned, as though on the verge of performing a magic trick. The boys all stood up. She snapped open the blade with a flick of her thumb. She swooped up the ball, held it aloft in one hand and raising the knife with the other, she assumed a stance, and with a glance at the boys, she took a deep breath and plunged the knife into the ball. Kamal flinched at the pop of the blade entering the ball she had slit open into a plastic smile. 

Last year, she had only to borrow Kamal’s pocketknife to pierce their flimsy assumptions of her. But now, tangled and silenced by the hijab, she didn’t know what blade she would need to forge for herself. Like many of the boys’ older sisters, she would reluctantly confine herself to the house. Between chores, she could immerse herself in literature, try to cultivate an interest in gardening, or perhaps learn to knit. Knitting was a task that Maman did with ease, effortlessly making anything from socks to sweaters and scarves, but despite her encouragement and skill, she couldn’t find the thread to intrigue her daughter with such a domestic task. Zainab always preferred to be out in the street, running around, playing games.

Zainab began fidgeting with her veil as the sun was casting its brutal beams. It was awkward, the way the hijab engulfed her head and squeezed it. With her index finger, she loosened its hold on her cheeks and felt her skin breathe freely in the languid breeze. When she withdrew her hand, the fabric resumed its firm grasp. Underneath, her thoughts began to broil.

 Down the street, across from Agha Jamshid’s convenience store, a strange man sat barefoot beneath the expansive shade of a chenar tree. She had never seen him here before. He seemed like a beggar, but there was no handwritten sign asking for help, no handmade trinkets on display to be sold, no bucket or cup filled with change. When she came closer, he was leaning against the tree-trunk, lost in reverie. He was gaunt and swarthy, with deep shadows under his protruding cheekbones, and skin shriveled like a date’s. Alerted by her footsteps, he came to, gradually raised his head, and stared at her with gleaming pupils.

“What a radiant young lady!” he exclaimed. “Has anybody ever asked you about your glowing expression?” Such a bizarre question! Her immediate instinct was to say no, but when she tried to respond, her throat clogged up. Nothing came out but a strained sigh, at which the man let out a wheezing laugh.

“Why’re you trying to say aloud what you’ve already said in silence?” Zainab flushed with embarrassment. There was foreboding in his yellow eyes. It seemed that at any instant, they would flare up with a blinding flash and consume his body in flames. But he only yawned and stroked his scraggly beard and dusting the dingy sleeves of his white robe with uncanny calm. Flies buzzed around his head and settled on his disheveled turban. One of them landed on his nostril, which he swatted away with an indifferent flick of his wrist. She wondered whether she had seen him in one of her forgotten dreams, heard about him in some ancient Persian myth.

“You see, here in Tehran,” the man said, “there’s not enough silence. Every day, you see these taxi drivers honking their horns at people on the road and businessmen yapping with each other on the bus. You know the street vendor? He woke me up this morning yelling about a new prayer rug that he wanted me to buy. It had pigeon shit all over it. When I told him it was sinful to pray on that rug, he tried to talk his way out of it by telling me that it was a traditional rug from Mecca, blessed by five different Imams. Some people will try anything. All they care about is going to work and making money. They won’t notice that there’s something special about your radiant expression. Please, come take a seat. There’s a story that I’d like to tell you.” He waved her closer. It was against her good judgment to sit by and listen to a story from a strange and random vagabond, but her curiosity was piqued. She couldn’t step away. Most adults only tended to patronize her with a pinch on the cheek, but she sensed that this man could perceive her every thought.

She tucked a few strands of her hair under her veil. What would the neighbors think if they were to see her sitting on the ground next to this dusty stranger? She peered down the street, relieved to see Agha Jamshid snoring beneath the creak of his ceiling fan, his sandaled feet propped up on the counter. At this hour, there was no one in sight.

“Please, don’t be shy. I just want to talk,” the vagabond insisted. He pointed with deference to a spot next to him at the gnarled root of the tree, as if it were a sofa. Zainab felt as though she were invited into his living room and that, at any minute, a tray of hot tea with a bowl of pistachios or pomegranate seeds could hover through the air and settle in front of her. She imagined him plopping a sugar cube in his tea and watching it melt in silence, before embarking on a profound train of thought. He resembled a Haji who would drink his tea by precariously tipping his cup and allowing his tea to spill over the edge, onto the saucer below, before raising the saucer and drinking the little pond that had gathered. She was convinced that someone like him could never spill a single drop. She made up her mind, drew near and sat down on the tree root, adjusting herself to its rough surface. The whiff of a carcass nearby made her cup her hands over her nose. 

 “I want to start by telling you the tale of a young girl who reminds me of you. The best thing in the world is the youthful glow of a child,” he said. “Do you have any idea where it comes from?” She shook her head. “Well, one time, there was a girl who actually found it. She saw the inner light of every single child in the whole world.” He suddenly gave a raspy cough that shook him to the core, and a wisp of black smoke escaped his lips. She watched it rise through the air, and when she inhaled, her face turned numb. Everything in her surroundings began to blur. She felt herself lift off the ground, gliding somewhere far away, caressed by some unknown force. 

“A long time ago,” the vagabond’s hoarse voice reverberated through her mind, “there was a dervish who wandered the deserts every night, lost in deep prayer. One night, he went inside a cave to rest, and he saw a young girl crying with her face in her hands. He asked her what was wrong, and she told him how, on their journey to Mecca, she’d become separated from her family’s caravan after a sandstorm, and how she’d run back and forth all day, chasing her father’s voice in the groan of the wind. The dervish was inspired by her youthful glow, so he asked her to come along with him on his journey. She agreed after he promised to take her to the House of God…”

2

The dervish and the girl traversed the flat, barren land in silence, under the stern gaze of the moon. Above them was the whisper of a tired breeze; below them, the steady crunch of their footsteps on coarse sand. With sweaty palms, she clutched the tips of his fingers, and, every so often, squeezed them to steady her nerves. The dervish was tall, slender, and broad-shouldered, and she had to crane her neck just to see his elongated face with large, pointed teeth and lanky limbs like wings, reminding her of the great Simurgh.

They made slow progress, plunging further into the darkness. The emptiness stilled her heart but heightened her impatience. A moth fluttered through the air and settled upon a boulder, then flit away into a sheltering crevice. She recalled her father telling her that Allah always sprinkled intricate clues along the journey that foretold the destiny of a traveler. The moth would no doubt reemerge long after they were gone and present itself to another weary traveler as the fine craft of God. 

The dervish’s head swiveled from time to time, but he never altered course, assured that the path would seek him. Why has someone like this, with no coherent plan, offer to take her to the House of God? In time, with compassion and forgiveness from the Almighty, she hoped that these uncertain thoughts would be answered. Inshallah!

The more they walked, the more it felt as if they stood in the same sandy spot all along. Dimly lit crags with jagged and warped surfaces were spread all throughout the land, like families of ghouls risen from the sand. She turned to look back, but everything behind her lay concealed, as though a dark veil had been draped over the landscape. She couldn’t remember much about her past. Her only memory was that of her father, the man who had always planned their trips to Mecca, who had always seemed in possession of the hours, the minutes, and seconds, manipulating them to his liking, presiding over every aspect of their journey. She had trouble recalling the difference between her father and Allah. She looked longingly into that infinite distance, and her father’s image appeared above the rim of the clouds to console her. Waves of black mist began to lap towards her from the moonlit horizon. She yearned to stretch out her limbs and float away towards him. Her mouth went dry. Her lids grew heavy, and she suddenly felt herself sinking into those serene depths. Here, the remnants of her past, the fading echoes of her father’s voice, carried her to unknown lands. The desert whispered to her lonesome soul in everlasting paternal comfort.

The dervish grunted and fiercely tugged at her arm, jolting the child awake. She straightened herself and adjusted her black veil. How many steps had she taken in slumber? For how many hours had her daze been a dream? The dervish cleared his throat with exasperation and pointed ahead.

“There, beyond that light, the House of God awaits us.”

She gazed to where he pointed and saw a glowing speck of orange on the horizon. The dervish stroked his beard and quickened his stride. He suddenly seemed to have a plan and moved with purpose. A rush of excitement overcame the child. She looked around for signs of the bustling city Mecca but could see nothing. Where were the lively merchants, their camels loaded with goods, the peddlers luring naïve pilgrims with empty bargains and impish grins? For a moment, she wondered had they come to the wrong place, was this dervish an unbeliever who had brought her not to the Ka’aba, but to the nest of the Simurgh waiting to devour her.

As they approached, she heard a faint crackling of a burning pyre, from which a column of dappled light stretched interminably to the sky. A thousand undulating flames were rising through it and floating to the heavens. After all this time, journeying through nothingness, this dazzling sight illumined her heart.

They drew nearer, and the light grew harsher. The flames jumped and danced with rhythmic chaos, and when she squinted and stared at them, they seemed to lash out at her. The dervish raised his head to the sky, muttered an imprecation, and all at once, the flames of the pyre swayed in her direction. The fire settled back and calmly peered at her, but in the next second, there was a deafening eruption. Tongues of flame shot up in fury, enveloping the column. She cowered and covered her ears.

The dervish grabbed her wrist and started to run. The flames clambered onto one another and leapt out to singe her salty, innocent skin. Her face stung, and her legs quivered with fright. The blasting sucked the tears from her eyes and flung them out into the scalding air. The dervish savagely pulled her along, but she stumbled and fell to the ground.

“Get up!” he yelled, “The House of God is open!” He yanked her up, pulled her to her feet, and she trampled forth clumsily as the dervish dragged her sprinting ahead. Through bleary eyes, she could make out the conflagration towering above her. She whimpered, trying to halt, but the dervish soared ahead. Her arm felt as if it would become severed from her body. She clasped her eyes shut as they came to a standstill in front of the pyre.

“Open your eyes!” the dervish commanded.

She refused, but the voracious light surged forth. She screamed and turned her head. The dervish dug his nails into her wrist, and her frantic pulse pounded against his palm.

“You must open your eyes!” She wrested her arm from his grip, used it to shield her face, and sobbed.

“Do you seek Him or not?” the dervish demanded. She was speechless. Who was this “He”? Was it her father burning alive? The dervish’s bony fingertips pierced her shoulder, and she squirmed in anguish.

“He’s calling you!” She took a reluctant step but quickly halted and shook her head. Where was He now? She needed Him. The dervish loosened his grip and urged her forth. She took a few steps but stopped.

“You must walk into the fire to find Him.” Instead, she turned and hit the man wrenching herself free. Then, turning back, she shielded her face with outstretched hands and squinted at the blaze through her fingers. Did her father await her?

“Walk into the fire!” The dervish’s voice rumbled through the sky like thunder. She glanced back, but he was nowhere to be seen. A gray robe and an unraveled turban were sprawled on the ground. Somewhere above, she heard the flapping of wings.

She was alone. There was only the ghastly inferno. She could almost sense its expectation, its peculiar awareness. It seemed to listen to her, and soon enough, she knew that she would have to make a choice. Perhaps the dervish had sought to gain her entry into the House of God to reunite her with her father. Where was He now? Did He watch and yearn for her immolation? Her destiny was here, in this moment, in the throes of this decision. Slowly, she pulled the hijab off her head, blindfolded herself with it, and neared the fire. She took a breath to calm her heart and walked forward.

3

When Zainab came to, she had no idea what had happened to her. For the first few seconds, she rubbed her eyes and wiggled her fingers. Whirling her head, she was relieved to find herself beneath the chenar tree. The vagabond was no longer speaking, but the flies circling his head seemed tied to the threads of his thoughts, deftly reweaving every scene of his enigmatic tale. Watching them, she could still feel the desert sand beneath her feet.

He gazed at her with a pensive expression. Zainab was accustomed to listening to her mother’s bedtime stories – classic tales of Persian literature that Maman studied and taught in class – but she had never felt as uncomfortable as she did now, her heart pounding against her chest. Could she politely stand up and walk away from this strange adult?

“The burned girl…she wasn’t prepared for the Almighty, you know.” The vagabond’s voice was casual, as though he were talking to her in the dining room over a cup of tea. Zainab opened her mouth to tell him that she didn’t understand nor appreciate his story, but her voice was blocked by the pebble-sized lump in her throat. Clenching her fists, she let out a desperate whimper.

“Forget about talking,” the vagabond urged. “Just feel the fire. Isn’t it beautiful?” Zainab shrugged. There was nothing beautiful about the fact that she was a mute.

“You’re casting shadows, when you already have the light,” the vagabond remarked. Zainab didn’t know what he meant, but his voice made her wonder whether he knew of her struggles with wearing the hijab. 

She sat up straight and followed his glance across the street. Agha Jamshid was yawning and stretching out in his chair. The vagabond cleared his throat, closed his eyes and resumed his meditative pose, as if to signal to her that she ought to depart to save face. He grew pallid and stiff, the blood receding from his cheeks. He had withdrawn from the world. Zainab knew that were she to shake him by the shoulders, he would simply clatter to the ground like a desiccated skeleton. She stood up and walked towards the store, anxious that Agha Jamshid might have spotted her with this outcast.

Agha Jamshid, as usual, was behind the counter, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. She was glad that Kamal wasn’t here today.

“Look at you!” Agha Jamshid exclaimed. “All grown up! You’re looking more and more like your mother.” Zainab blushed and turned away from him. She worried that her rigid lips would betray her muteness. She swung open the cooler and extracted the wad of money from her pocket. She stood close to a rack of drinks with the tip of her nose nearly grazing the glass milk bottles. She heard the soft whir of refrigeration, fumbled to count out the exact change. She glanced at Agha Jamshid through the fridge door, but the pane fogged up and obscured him from view. She grabbed the milk and swung the door closed. She scurried to place the change on the counter and ran to the door.

“No lavashak today?” Zainab shrugged with a flattered grin and capered out into the street. “But they’re delicious!” he called out. She glanced back to see Agha Jamshid seated with his feet propped onto the counter, tearing open with his teeth a packaged roll of sour-plum fruit-leather, her favorite.

Once home, Zainab put the milk away and went to the door of Maman’s study, where her mother was still on the phone. Zainab slipped away to her room, closed the door and yanked off her hijab, tossing it into the drawer of her dresser. Her eyes rested on the basket of toys, filled with all sorts of exuberant stuffed animals and dolls. Her favorite doll, Suheila, was one that Maman had purchased for her at a bazaar in Isfahan. The doll had dark hair, brown eyes, and a quirky smile. Zainab picked up Suheila and gave her a sympathetic kiss on the forehead. How boring it must have been for the poor doll to sit around in this basket all morning, next to that clumsy, bird-looking animal rudely squished up against the doll’s head and wrinkling her veil. Cradling Suheila in her arms, Zainab was about to reprimand the rude bird with an accusatory finger when a sudden thought made her hesitate. She examined the bird closely. She often had played with the toy Simurgh, always casting it as the villain in her adventures, but now she realized that the stuffed animal was herSimurgh. The bird’s human face reminded her of the vagabond’s story and how the dervish had suddenly sprouted wings flying overhead. She set Suheila on the ground next to the golden column of sunlight that shone through the glass door of her balcony. Zainab envisioned the doll standing in the desert. She lifted the stuffed Simurgh into the air, flapping its wings, and angled its head down towards her Suheila. Zainab took on the voice of the dervish, “Walk into the fire!” Suheila did not move. Zainab thought to scoot the toy forward into the column of light, but she felt guilty at the thought of her favorite doll consumed by flames. Suheila would think it was too morbid a game.

Zainab sighed, returned her doll and the Simurgh into the basket, and sat on the edge of her bed. There was a knock on her door.

“Yes?” Zainab called out. She was tempted to say “what!” but she knew her mother would never tolerate an impolite reply. Maman entered, taking a quick glance around Zainab’s room and thanked her for fetching the milk.

“How was it outside?”

“It was hot.” Zainab grimaced. “Worse with the veil.”

“You’re not used to it yet. Give it some time.”

“It felt like my head was on fire!” Zainab exclaimed. Maman chuckled.

“I’m sure it did. At school, they’ll have air conditioning in the classrooms.”

“I know…but it’s not just that.”

“What do you mean?”

“I don’t know,” Zainab mumbled and shrugged.

“What’s wrong with you?” Zainab didn’t know where to start. How could she possibly explain the vagabond? She could get in trouble just for sitting down next to a homeless man. How could she tell of her muteness without sounding like a fool?

“Nothing…I just don’t feel good.”

“Why not?”

“I’m confused.”

“About what?”

“I don’t wanna wear my veil anymore.”

“We already went over this.” Zainab knew Maman always expected Zainab to express herself like a mature young woman.

“But…” Zainab looked her mother in the eyes and blurted out, “I can’t talk when I wear it.” This reveal didn’t come off the way she had intended; it made her sound like a clumsy child.

“What do you mean?”

“I can’t talk when I put it on.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t know. It’s just weird. It feels like there’s a pebble stuck in my throat.”

“Well, you must be tying it too tightly under your chin.”

“No,” Zainab objected.

“Do you want me to tie it for you next time? It looked perfectly fine this morning.”

“No!” Zainab raised her voice. “That won’t make a difference. You don’t get it!”

“Well, then, what is it?”

“I don’t know!” Zainab squirmed on the edge of the bed and kicked out her leg in frustration. “I just don’t like it!”

“Look…” Maman raised her hand and shook her head. “I’ve told you this before. There are many girls all over the world who do this every day. You’ve only been wearing it for a few hours. Give it time. If you need help putting it on, that’s okay. Just ask. Otherwise, you must learn to be more patient.”

After a moment, Zainab spoke softly.

“I’m sorry.” She regretted having spoken about her troubles. She didn’t want her mother to be upset with her. Maman stood quietly with her hands on her hips.

“It’s alright,” she said. “But, you need to start thinking about why you’re wearing your hijab. It’s not just another piece of cloth. When the Prophet’s wives wore their veils, they were showing the public their faith in Him. It represented something important. You understand?”

“Yes.” Zainab nodded.

“You must think about these bigger ideas.”

Zainab looked up at her mother. “I will.” Maman sat on the bed and gave her daughter a kiss on the forehead. Zainab’s eyes brimmed with tears which she wiped away with the back of her hand.

“Everything will be okay,” Maman assured her. “Allah has a plan for everyone.” Zainab embraced her mother, leaning her head on her shoulder as the two of them sat together in silence. Maman smiled, stroking Zainab’s hair, then left the room to make their lunch.

When her mother was gone, Zainab remained motionless, listening to the methodical sound of her breath. Something strange was happening, something that even Maman, with all her wisdom and experience, would not understand. Zainab stood before the mirror, tied on her hijab, and peered for a long while at her reflection. She sensed a revolt against a foreign and hostile intrusion, something that clung to her but didn’t yet define her. But it was growing.

 

Mohammad Hakima is a fiction writer based in New York City. He moved to the United States in August of 1998 from Tehran, Iran. His fiction has been published in Mexico and the United States. His stories were twice finalists and once shortlisted for the William Faulkner-William Wisdom Creative Writing Competition. He works as a high school special education teacher, and is currently pursuing an MFA in Creative Writing from The New School.