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INNOCENT (2)
Houshang Golshiri
O, Imamzadeh 1 Hussein! I swear to the blood of your Grandsire, Lord of the Martyrs, 2 as it
flowed when Shemr 3 struck him on the back of the neck, that I am not begging for any
privilege. I want nothing from you. I am only asking for you to intercede with your
Grandsire on my behalf, ask him to forgive whatever transgression I have committed. You
know full well I am innocent. I didn’t do it for the money. I swear on your head it wasn’t
for the money. Well, how shall I put it? Perhaps it was a little bit for the money. There
were three sheep and a hundred tomans 4 involved. They had taken up a collection. I
myself contributed to it. Five tomans and three rials. 5 I had to sell a hen to come up with it.
My contribution was more than most. Kadkhoda 6 Ali paid only three tomans. Can you
imagine that? I upped him by two tomans. For your sake. Money is no object. Let me start
Literally, the offspring of an imam. According to the Iranian Shiite tradition, many such male offspring of
imams were persecuted or martyred at the hands of the infidel and sectarian foes. As such, they are
venerated as saints and have shrines and mausoleums built to them across the Iranian landscape. This
interior monologues is the stream of consciousness of a devotee of one such “imamzadeh.” There is a sense
that many of these shrines and pilgrimage sites are established on bogus claims of miracles reported by
mischievous individuals or unreliable witnesses, interested in the endowments and donations by credulous
believers and worshippers.
2 The reference is to Hussein-Ibn Ali, the grandson of the Prophet and the son of Ali-ibn Abi Taleb, the first of
the Shiite imams, who was killed in the Battle of Karbala (October of 680 CE) as he fought against the
illegitimate takeover of the caliphate by the scion of the Ummayad dynasty.
3 Shemr-ibn Ziljawshan, an officer in the Umayyad forces, who, according to the Shiite tradition, delivered the
fatal blow to the neck of Hussein-ibn Ali in the battle of Karbala.
4 A unit of Iranian currency.
5 Ten rials equals a toman.
6 A village elder or foreman.
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from the beginning so you get an idea what I went through. Even today, even last night,
yesterday, I wanted to pay you a visit, to seek an audience with you. I put my slippers
under my arm and walked through the gate of the courtyard, came up the stairs. I had let
my beard grow to a stubble. I wore the felt prayer cap. I am not wearing it now, but I had it
pulled down to my forehead. Mash-Taghi was squatting at the entrance to the shrine
reading the Qur’an. He got up. He was using his finger to mark the page. I hope I am not
boring you with all this. I know you are now sitting next to your dear granddad in the
Garden of Eden, under the trees next to a stream of milk and honey. Everybody’s there: all
the saints, all of those Sacred-Seventy-Two 7(whom I love to death). I know you are talking
about me, and thinking of your own suffering. Where was I? I’m just letting you know
what I had to go through. Mash Taghi didn’t hear me the first time I said hello. He did not
recognize me at first but then he returned my greeting. “Hello to you,” he said. His voice
had changed and sounded grating. He had dyed his beard with henna. “You aren’t from
this village, are you?” he asked. The reason is that a lot of people come from surrounding
communities. After you gave sight to that blind boy and put some flesh on Gholamhussein
Afje’ie’s scrawny kid. They all come to pay homage and do a pilgrimage. There are some
who say, “No, there hasn’t been a miracle.” Most of them are from the Upper Village. But I
know that you performed those miracles. And now more and more pilgrims come from the
Upper Village. Gradually they are accepting the fact that you perform miracles. I was
sitting to dinner the other night. With my wife and two minor children. Suddenly, the
house was attacked by a shower of rocks. One smashed the windowpane and sent bits of
glass all over the room. Another landed next to my younger boy. It barely missed his head.
“You godless infidels,” I yelled out of the window. “I haven’t done anything wrong. Why do
you treat me like this?” But they answered by throwing more rocks. One hit my older
child, Hussein on his back. I’ve named him after you. I had vowed if I had a son, I’d name
him after you. He is ten years old now. I rushed up the stairs to the roof. I was in such
haste I banged my head on the door frame. No matter. Actually, I was glad for the pain. I
deserve what comes to me. I saw some dark shapes running down the stairs from the
neighbor’s roof. They weren’t kids; I could tell from their size. They were from Upper
According to the Shiite tradition, the Sacred-Seventy-Two were men who remained with Hussein to the end
and gave their lives for his cause in the Battle of Karbala.
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Village. It is none of my business what they believe there. It was my own fault. I knew
things would get worse if I chased them down and made a stink about it. You know how it
is being a stranger in a strange land. You’ve been one yourself. You know how pig-headed
peasant folks are. Especially when it comes to strangers. That’s why I came down from the
roof and didn’t mention it to anyone. Nothing happened the next day. On Friday a lot of
pilgrims from Upper village came down to your shrine. I was sleeping outdoors with the
family. Around midnight there was a repeat of the rock-throwing. They were not pebbles.
There were even some chunks of bricks. I realized Upper Village was no place for me at all.
The next morning I took my family and went to Khosrow-Shirin. I sent a message to
Kadkhoda Ali and told him I was selling my land and house for half of what they’re worth.
“If you are in the market,” I said, “there you go.” Do you know how he answered me? We
were in the Khosrow-Shirin tea house. The kids were napping on a bench and Fatima, my
wife, was moping in a corner. I saw the kadkhoda’s boy standing in the doorway. He did
not greet me or anything. You know peasants always say hello wherever they go. But not
this boy. “All right, what did your dad say?” I asked him. “My dad said,” he answered, “it is
not worth anything. He won’t want it even for free.” I swear to God, what is the fault of my
children? What have they done wrong, my poor Hussein and Asghar. Asghar is only three
years old. Somebody should pity them at least. I wanted to bring them to your shrine to
pay their respects, but I was afraid I might be recognized. Actually, Mash Taghi recognized
me. I realized Khosrow-Shirin is no place for me either. They wouldn’t let me in. I could
not find a job. The tea-house landlord told me to move out the next morning. “Customers
don’t like to see you hanging around, Shemr,” he told me. “You’d better get your stuff and
hit the road.” Do you see that? He called me “Shemr,” not “Mustafa Shemr.” He even didn’t
take my money. He believed it would bring bad luck to his till. “Spend it on your family,” he
told me. I did not want to tell you this stuff. But then I thought why not. Who better than
you to know all about this? Forget about this day. What about Judgment Day. What am I
going to do then? I realized I am in trouble the day we started building the roof over your
shrine. I volunteered to prepare the mortar. Ten men had been sent from Lower Village,
but I was there entirely by my own. We had called Ustad Faraj, the master bricklayer, from
Upper Village. They say his grandfather had built the dome over the Baba Ghasem shrine
and Faraj himself had done the tile work. When the work was finished and you performed
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your miracles, we packed up and went to Afjeh Village. We lived there for four years or so.
Then it was Uppper Village. But I have told you all about that, haven’t I? But I haven’t told
you how I got kicked out of Lower Village. I was in charge of mixing mortar for Ustad Faraj.
There were two other men working alongside me. I was donating my labor for the building
of the shrine—as long as it took—working in the heat of the day. I was using two of my
donkeys as well. Then Kadkhoda Ali came over. I could see his shadow over me. I was
loading the mud bin when he held my hand. “You can stop now,” he told me. I told him I
had a vow to donate my labor. I didn’t know why he wanted me to stop. “I know,” he said,
“and you have done enough. Let other people share in the grace.” I asked what this had to
do with them. Then he said, “To tell you the truth, people are not comfortable with you
touching the mausoleum.” You see how that hurt? And that coming from Kadkhoda Ali? I
had the shovel in my hand. But then I saw that ‘s not gonna do any good. God won’t forgive
more than one sin at a time. Besides, Khalegh, Mash Taghi, and Faraj were standing right
behind the alderman. I threw down the shovel, looked at the building, and sighed. Only the
first row of bricks had been set for the dome. I had done so much work there. I had even
gone to get the stone mason myself from the town. You know how far that is. I had to wait
two days for the bus. The mason didn’t want to come at first. But I convinced him. I told
him that would please God, especially for him, since he traced his lineage to the Prophet.
Then he agreed to come. As I was leaving, the alderman shouted, “Take the animals, too.”
Can you imagine? What have they done wrong? I came home. My wife was baking bread.
She was wearing the red scarf I had bought her in town, using some of the hundred tomans.
I had also bought her a chintz dress. I grabbed the scarf to remove it, but she had knotted it
under her chin and it wouldn’t come off. It was brand new and I had looked for it all over
town. I kept pulling on it and she fell on the ground. Then I saw the whites of her eyes and
realized I was doing the wrong thing. I thought of you. I thought of your pain and suffering.
I’m always thinking of you, of your eyes. In my dreams. No, I can’t tell you anything. You
already know. You always come to me at night. I sat down, undid the knot, and removed
the scarf “Woman,” I yelled at my wife, “who told you to wear this scarf?” It wasn’t her
fault. She had no way of knowing where the money had come from. I threw the scarf in the
oven. I looked at her. She was sitting in a corner crying, still wearing the chintz dress. I
don’t know what came over me. The next thing I knew I was tearing the dress into pieces
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and throwing them in the oven. My wife was screaming. Neighbors had already gathered
behind the fence and watching the scene. Only when someone shouted, “Hey, Mustafa
Shemr, what’s going on? What are you doing to that woman?” I noticed my wife was naked.
In front of all those strangers. She only had her skirt on. I stood in front of her trying to
block the view. “You godless infidels,” I yelled. “What the hell do you want from me?” I
picked up a piece of firewood and rushed to the fence. They all scrammed. My wife was
not crying. She was holding her hands to her throat looking at me, frightened. I told her to
go get some clothes on. “Please don’t hurt me,” she said as she rushed indoors. I haven’t
done anything wrong . . . well, maybe I have. For you and your Grandsire perhaps I am
disgraced. But I am not alone in this. They’re involved, too. They were the ones that
collected the money—and bought the sheep. They were the ones that set up the fund—to
which I contributed five tomans and three rials. How was I to know? They were all
standing there and looking on, watching, crying their eyes out. Now they’re faulting me for
it. They all ganged up on me, told me to move out, to Afjeh, to Upper Village, to KhosrowShirin, wherever, except here. Kadkhoda Ali bought me a house and some acreage in Afjeh.
With my own money. They did not contribute a farthing. The mortar of the dome had not
yet set before we moved to Afjeh. They designed the courtyard afterwards, after I moved
out. I heard they were designing a whole campus around the shrine. Then they put in a
reflecting pool, perhaps after you cured that invalid. Nobody tells me anything any more.
There are some big fish in the pool. They caught them in the irrigation canals. My
suggestion was that the shrine should be built near the canals. But you weren’t there at the
time. Perhaps you don’t know that. Perhaps you do. I’m sure you know how I was treated
by Mash Taghi when I came for a pilgrimage to your shrine. When he recognized me, he got
up to block my way. “Is that you, Mustafa Shemr?” he yelled at me. “Haven’t I warned you
not to show your face here again?” I said, “I’m here to complain to His Holiness against
you.” He tried to grab my hand but I pushed him aside with my shoulder. I was carrying
four bundles of candles in my hands and I didn’t want to drop them. I know he is now the
curator of your shrine. I didn’t mean to hurt him. He fell on the hard floor, still holding on
to my hand. He then started shouting for help. I kept telling him I just wanted to visit the
shrine and pay my respects. I knew once I was inside they could not throw me out, being in
a sanctuary and all that. I moved toward the door, with Mash Taghi hanging on to my leg. I
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could see the guard rail around the tombstone. Nice work! Decent stained-glass windows
and excellent tile-work. Bravo! They must have got a master craftsman from the city. But
the place is dark. I can’t see very well. I light a couple more candles. Let there be light. Let
Mash Taghi find out about it. I am going to light forty candles—in bundles of four at the
corners of the mausoleum. The fact is that you can now read minds, no more secrets from
you. You know that I am scared of the dark. But you also know how Mash Taghi will react
when he finds the shrine all lit up. I was still reaching for the metal bars of the guardrail
around the tomb, dragging Mash Taghi behind me on the floor as he shouted for help. Then
a gang poured into the shrine. I don’t know who they were. They came in with their clubs
and shovels. They did not even take off their footwear. Inside of your shrine! You see the
bandage on the back of my head? That is where they hit me, perhaps with the sharp edge
of a shovel. But I still kept pushing to reach the tomb, with Mash Taghi holding on to my
legs. I just didn’t think it would be right to hit him, what with being inside your shrine. I
could hear them yelling at me, “Hey Shemr, where do you think you’re going? Didn’t we tell
you to stay away?” And stuff like that. I was just about to touch the mirror tiles on the
shrine when I was hit on the back of my head. I didn’t quite pass out. I could still see the
shrine within reach. I touched the mirrors with my fingers, and I noticed blood on the tiles.
Somebody else hit me with a shovel across my back. Then the rest of them started hitting
me with clubs and shovel handles as they shouted curses at me. And all that inside the
walls your shrine! That is supposed to be a sanctuary, a sacred place. But peasant folk
don’t pay attention to these things. I don’t know what happened next but I know that I
touched the rails around the tomb. You have a better idea about that. Actually, you were
there. You saw everything for yourself. I had left the children in Habibabad. It cost thirty
tomans in bus fare to take them there. By now there were rumblings against me in
Khosrow-Shirin. Perhaps they have heard that you’ve performed a miracle. But Habibadad
is till safe. I suppose not for long. I had land, property, a decent income, and a good
reputation. Now all I have is three tomans a day. And I don’t know for how long. Woe the
day they find out in Habibadad. Now they call me “Mustafa.” But troublemakers will soon
add “Shemr” to it. Soon they’ll forget the “Mustafa” part and call me “Shemr” without any
prodding by troublemakers. It is stamped on my forehead. You’ve stamped it there for all
to know. Any way, when I came to, I saw they had left me near a crumbling, abandoned
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roadhouse. There was a dog milling around, barking. That was what woke me up actually.
It could smell blood. My head had been bandaged. There was a hurricane lamp there, some
bread wrapped in a bundle, and these candles. The candles were specked with blood. In a
distance I could see shadows of some men; I don’t know how many. I was dizzy and
couldn’t count. You know better how many. “Hey, Mustafa,” I heard somebody yell, “just
leave and don’t let us find you here in this village again.” I recognized the voice. It was
Khalegh. Do you know him? Of course you do. This is the one who found you, the one who
told us he’d found a direct descendant of the Prophet in Khan Mirza District, a real, genuine
descendant, a likely Imamzadeh. But a little investment was necessary, he said. That was
when they took up a collection. I didn’t have anything to give at the time. I wasn’t quite
clear what they wanted the money for. If I knew, I would have given my share, no matter
what. No. Perhaps not. Perhaps I wouldn’t have given the money any way. Well, I just
took the candles. Only the candles. What did I want the bread for? The dog was squealing.
I undid the bundle and gave him the bread. I could see the dome of your shrine from where
I stood. I didn’t want to leave, but I had no choice. Those guys were still hanging around.
You realize what would have happened if I had tried to go back. I picked up the lamp and
started walking. A little later I found I was still bleeding. There was blood all over me. But
then I thought why I should care. Is my blood thicker than yours? Or the blood of your holy
ancestors? Or the blood of the Sacred Seventy-Two, for that matter? When I got to the top
of the hill I couldn’t see them any more. But my legs were getting weak. I squatted on a
rock. I could hear Khalegh still shouting threats. And I could hear dogs, lots of them. All
the dogs of the village. They hadn’t reached the hill, but they were moving in that direction.
And there I was, all alone by myself and just a hurricane lamp. I was thirsty but the brook
was dry. I found a little puddle among some weeds. I shouldn’t be talking about all this. I
got what I deserved. But I am telling you so you know that I know what it is like to be
driven away from your hearth and home, and stranded in a hostile land. So you would
mediate on my behalf with your holy Grandsire. I soaked my shirt tail in the puddle and
squeezed it in my mouth, that was dry like cotton. Two men carrying hurricane lamps
appeared on the hilltop with dogs. But I circled the hill past the dry river bed and knew
they couldn’t find me. I smashed the lamp against a rock. You know why. I crawled into
the wheat field and lay down flat on my back. I started crying for my suffering, your
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suffering, for the parched lips of your Grandsire on the battlefield of Karbala. I could still
hear Khalegh yelling curses. But I knew they couldn’t trace me. I just cried. I cried for my
innocent
babes
stranded
in
Habibbad. I cried for my wife Fatima. She’s suffered so much and heard insults in Upper
Village, Lower Village, Afjeh, Khosrow-Shirin. In Lower Village public bath women did not
let her unpack her towels near theirs. They turned their backs on her. Imagine turning
your back on an expectant mother! When our Hussein was being borne no one came to
help. I delivered the baby myself. I cut the umbilical cord myself. That very night I named
the baby after you in recognition of your suffering. I could still hear Khalegh’s voice and
see the light from the lamps. They were gone at last and I fell asleep until I was awakened
by sunlight the next day. At the far end of the field some farmers were working on their
crops. I hid behind the wheat stalks and shook some grains from the clusters of wheat and
popped them in my mouth. I was that hungry. I knew I was doing something unlawful,
taking from another man’s crop without him knowing. That is what you said yourself in an
Ashura 8 sermon. You said we are not supposed to take other people’s property by force or
deceit. You should not covet another man’s wife or female child. You should help the poor,
the homeless, and the disenfranchised (You used that word. I don’t know what it really
means) in empathy with the homelessness and disenfranchised Imam Reza. 9
I couldn’t
help eating those grains. Nothing had passed my lips for two days. I had walked for two
days to kiss the threshold of your shrine. I just lay there in the field until sundown. The sun
was hot, like high noon at Ashura. But don’t worry about me and my head injury. I’ll give
anything for you. A gash on my head is nothing. I only ask that you forgive me—which I
know you will—and all my sins. Didn’t you say yourself that the greatness of the Prophet
was in his willingness to forgive? Didn’t you say that he forgave the Jew who threw a
handful of ashes on his head? And visited him at his bedside when he got sick? Didn’t you
say that he pardoned all people of Mecca? 10 Not to mention Hind the Liver-Eater. 11 The
Ashura is the tenth day the month of Muharram, the day Hussein was killed by Shemr in the Battle of
Karbala. It is the most elaborately observed day of mourning in the Shiite tradition, more so than the day of
Prophet Mohammad’s death.
9 Ali Al-Reza, the eighth imam in the Twelver Shiite hagiography. Died 818 CE.
10 According to Islamic history, Mohammad was driven out of Mecca (622 CE) following the proclamation of
his prophesy.
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same could be said of Imam Ali. 12 Then I moved toward the village and hid in the wheat
fields until the lights went out. I passed by the graveyard. The dogs started barking and
gave me a fright. I got back to my hiding place. I tried again when they stopped. I was so
weak I had to lean on walls and fences to walk. All of a sudden, when I got near Khalegh’s
house, his dog barked from the rooftop and jumped right in front of me. But then he
stopped and wagged his tail, rubbed himself against my legs. You see, the dog remembered
me feeding him the bread. That brought tears to my eyes. I patted him and thought of you
and my own misery. You know pretty well Khalegh was behind it all. The dogs know about
gratitude but some humans don’t. Now I ask you, seriously, tell me who first came up with
the idea that Lower Village needed an Imamzadeh? It was Khalegh, wasn’t it? People
wanted to keep up with the Upper Village; they didn’t want to have to go to Noh-Can
mosque for Ashura observances. I understand. There was also the problem of water rights.
When the aquifer dried up people blamed the Upper Village folks. Then there was the clash
over the matter and two young people died, one of them Khalgh’s son. We never knew who
killed them. In a way, you can’t blame the village folks. They wanted to have a source of
Divine Grace, a secure source of water. There were insinuations that Lower Village land is
cursed, not blessed by God—or something. That’s when Khalgh went looking and found
you. He came back and told us that in Khan Mirza District he had come across an elderly
presenter of the laments, 13 a truly righteous man and a veritable Seyyed. 14 That’s when
they collected money. I wasn’t able to make a contribution. They paid your way to bring
you to our village. They also paid you in advance for the upcoming Ashura. There was a
feeling that if we didn’t move fast, other villages might get you. Do you remember how
ceremoniously you were brought into the village? You were housed in Kadkhda Ali’s
quarters. Men lined up to kiss your hand. Do you remember how I kissed your hand three
times? You were sitting up there min the hall smoking the water pipe, surrounded by
11 A semi-mythological female figure in Shiite tradition known for ferocity and cruelty. She was a part of the
Ommayad campaign against Hussein in the Battle of Karbala. Putatively, she devoured the liver of Hamzeh,
one of Hussein’s partisans in the Battle of Karbala.
12 The first of Shiite imams and the fourth Rashedin Caliph. Died 661.
13 A cleric trained in the Shiite canonical law, in charge of the spiritual needs of a district, faintly similar to a
diocese, and authorized to perform mourning rituals in private or public observances of religious occasions,
distantly similar to a cantor in Jewish tradition
14 A direct descendant of the Prophet, thus possessed of saintly qualities.
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village dignitaries. Do you remember what you told me when I was kissing your hand?
“What’s your name, young man?” you asked. I humbly answered, “Mustafa, your slave.”
You smiled and said, “What’s this mustache you’re wearing. Makes you look ferocious like
Shemr-ibn Ziljawshan.” Do you remember that? Then you were given Faraj’s daughter in
concubinage. I remember the ceremony. You stroking your beard. It had been dyed in
henna and looked really nice. When they wanted to dress you in the conjugal gown, you
said no, you were too old for that. But they insisted. No music though. Perhaps in
consideration of your ancestors. A few women did some yodeling. Some men did the club
dance. I was there only briefly. I just couldn’t stay there and watch you, have eye contact
with you. You understand. Khalegh kept telling me I was serving God. Those who have
their prayers answered, would be grateful to me. Those who’d have their illnesses cured
would bless me. “Think of our village,” Khalegh told me over and over again. My wife
wasn’t in on it. She brought fresh-churned cream for you the next morning. When she
returned, she said, “His Grace had a good night,” and she snickered. I did, too. We didn’t
mean any disrespect. I knew you could do it. The Faraj girl was fairly good-looking. Good
complexion. The alderman’s son married her afterwards, with much relish. When I was in
Upper Village I heard it was Faraj who bought the suit of armor and the helmet in town.
The helmet didn’t fit very well, but the tunic did. He also got a pair of boots and a pair of
red breeches. We got some feathers from a rooster’s wing and attached them to the helmet
for extra effect. The whole outfit is now draped on the Ashura procession banner. Kadkhda
Ali tied the straps behind the tunic. I was trembling as he did that. Khalegh looked at me
and said, “Calm down, Mustafa.” We had trouble getting the boots on. Hassan the Barber
gave me a shave. He had to cut my hair down to the scalp to make the helmet fit. Even so, it
scratched my forehead. Hassan waxed my mustache to make it stay straight with pointed
tips. It frightened me when I looked myself in the mirror. The day I kissed your hand,
Khalegh followed me outside and said, “Make sure you don’t shave that mustache. His
Grace liked it very much.” You said you’d send you some rice dish for dinner with the
family. The boots were really tight. We worked hard to put them on. “These are not feet,”
Kadkhoda Ali said, not smiling “They are fishing boats.” Nobody else seemed amused. I
was enjoying the process. Now when I say that, I feel ashamed. I don’t know. Perhaps I
was doing something righteous. They also handed me a sword. It wasn’t really a sword. It
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was just a blade with a handle. It had been sharpened. I saw Hassan the Barber stropping
it when I arrived at Kadkhda Ali’s. It made me shudder. He glanced at me. “Good luck,” he
said. I turned around to leave, but Khalegh stopped me in the hallway. “A hundred tomans
and three sheep. That’s a small fortune,” he said. “You can buy some acreage with it. You
can choose it from my property. Any piece you want. With water rights. You can be your
own boss. You don’t have to work for this or that as a day-laborer.” He paused a little.
“Besides, think of other-worldly rewards, rewards given by God.” he said. “Just go in the
room and kiss the holy man’s hand.” I did come into the room, as you remember. But then
I turned around and ran back to the village square. There was a sineh-zani in progress. A
procession of breast beaters 15 was performing. I fell in step with them enthusiastically.
This was the first time the ceremony was taking place in our village; we always had to go to
Upper Village. I had you in mind as I beat my breast. No one else. Then I heard Kadkhda
Ali’s son calling me with some urgency in his voice. He could not see me. But with a loud
voice he made an announcement to the crowd.
He said his father had ordered the
procession to disband because it was already midday.
So the people stopped and
dispersed. They didn’t know what was going on. How could they? I returned to Kadkhoda
Ali’s house. Hassan the Barber was still polishing the sword. I got back in the outfit again.
Those red breeches made me look really scary. The helmet was made of iron and weighed
a ton. When I entered the room, as you remember, you were sitting on some big cushions
sipping tea, with the water pipe in front of you. Khalegh patted me on the back and told me
to say hello. You chuckled. My teeth were chattering. I was holding the sword behind the
curtains. So you couldn’t see it. I was weeping all the time. Although I hadn’t said hello,
you smiled at me and said, “Hello to you too, Mustafa. You look great.” I don’t think you
noticed my eyes streaming. Someone bent down and tucked the red breeches into the top
of the boots, which had now been polished and looked new. Kadkhoda urged me to go
forward and kiss your hand, but I just couldn’t move. By that time you had noticed I was
crying. “Why are you crying, dear boy,” you asked. “You are doing something good. Listen,
for forty years I have been reciting the miseries suffered by my holy ancestors, and I
“Sineh Zani,” or breast-beating, is an elaborately choreographed mourning ritual in the Iranian Shiite
culture. Performers beat their breasts, as an expression of grief, to the rhythm of a requiem sung by the
participants. This ritual is performed most often in observance of Ashura, although in some communities it is
organized on the anniversaries of the deaths of other imams or members of the Prophet’s family.
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haven’t been able to make anyone cry like you are crying now.” Then you laughed, like you
meant it as a joke. “Now, let’s see how you perform this Ashura midday,” you went on. “I
wan you to make the skies rumble.” At that point I stopped crying. I brought out the sword
from behind the curtain and held it firmly in front of me. Then you said, “Now you look like
the real Shemr. Be strong. The more ruthless you look, the more your audience will think
of the suffering of the Holy Saints. Don’t you know that for every drop of tear you extract
from the mourners you are awarded one Hajj 16 by God.” Now I wasn’t trembling any more.
I wanted so badly to kiss your hand, kiss your foot. But there I was standing in the middle
of the room watching Mash Taghi crying loudly. You turned to me. “You see what you’ve
done,” you said, kind of light-hearted, “you are already making people cry. From now on
when people see you with that magnificent mustache they’ll burst out crying for the pains
my holy ancestors suffered.” You started puffing on the water pipe and then turned to
Mash Taghi, Kadkhoda Ali, and Khalegh. “Well,” you told them, “let’s get going and do the
good deed.” And once again you told me to be strong. The three guys came forward and
held you under your arms to help you stand. “Oh, come on now,” you said to them. “I can
walk these couple of steps by myself. I am not that old.” But they moved you with your feet
off the ground. You kept saying you could walk and didn’t want to impose any burden on
them. By the time I got to the balcony railing, they had moved you down the stairs to the
edge of a flowerbed in the yard. Your turban had been knocked to the side of your head.
Your back was to me when you got there. It was Kadkhoda Ali’s son who pinned your legs
down. You must have seen him holding your legs. “What are you waiting for, Mustafa,”
Khalegh hissed at me. “It is noontide.” You turned your head and saw me. We had eye
contact. You kept looking from person to person, like you were confused. Khalegh hit me
on the chest with his fist. “What the hell are you waiting for?” he yelled at me. I could hear
Mash Taghi whimpering behind me. He cried like women. The front door to the yard was
closed. I had grabbed your beard and was about to slide the blade on your throat when
Khalegh threw me a sharp kick. “From behind, you stupid,” he squealed. I was holding
your beard in my left hand. You stared at me, wide-eyed. You were panting, moving your
head sideways. I had trouble hanging on to your beard. I swear I saw you turn your head
Hajj is the pilgrimage to Mecca. It is one of the five pillars of faith in Islam and all Muslims who have the
means are required to undertake it at least once in their lives.
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and look me in the face. “Oh, Really?” you said. I placed the blade on the back of your neck.
I heard Kadkhoda Ali wailing, drowning out Mash Taghi’s sobbing. I slid the blade on the
back of your neck as I put pressure on it. Khalegh had told me it would be better if I could
do the job with one stroke. But that proved impossible and I had to pass the blade several
times to get through the tissue and bones before the head came off in my hand. Blood was
gushing from it. I could feel Mash Taghi beating me with his fist on my back. But I was
gazing at the severed head in my hand. “Put that head down, Shemr Ziljawshan,” Khalegh
ordered, “and get out of my sight.” I noticed your body sprawled on the ground next to the
flowerbed. I noticed some movement in your legs. There I was standing motionless, your
head in my left hand and the sword in my right. Kadkhda Ali, like he was awakened from a
dream, turned to me with wild eyes. “You go get lost,” he shouted at me. “Take that
damned outfit off so we can wash it.” I let drop the head and backed off slowly. Some blood
was still oozing from the neck. I sat on the staircase in a daze, still holding the sword. Mash
Taghi had passed out and was lying on the ground. I was able to compose myself enough to
take off the outfit. The boots were tight and wouldn’t budge. In my frustration, I used the
sword to rip them up.
I could not take off those awful red trousers, under the
circumstances, with your thin body still lying on the ground with your midriff exposed. I
could see your ribs sticking through the pale skin. Kadkhda Ali’s son asked if he should
bring some water, but did not wait for an answer and returned with a bucket. Someone
had put your head next to your body. The young man, weeping, washed the head and neck
as best he could, with some help from Khalegh. There was a knock on the door. The boy
went to answer it. It was Hassan the Barber. He was carrying a coffin on his back. “Hurry
up,” he said when he came in. “People are going be arriving soon. I told them His Grace has
passed away.” I couldn’t help kneeling next to you and kissing your hand while avoiding
the sight of your head next to your neck. Kadkhoda Ali was trying to stay on top of things.
He called Mash Taghi for help to wrap your body in a cerement that had come with the
coffin. Kadkhoda Ali had some objections regarding the proper ablution of the corpse.
“What kind of ablution do you think his ancestor had gotten on the battlefield of Karbala?”
said Khalegh, sarcastically, I thought. Then they put you in the coffin. That was too much
for me to bear. I raised the sword to hit myself on my skull. But Kadkhoda Ali’s son
Jumped and caught my arm. He managed to wrest the blade from my grip and wrestle me
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to the ground. He sat on my chest until the sword had been secured. But I really wish I had
managed to kill myself. Khalegh said that the outfit should be cleaned and preserved for
display in His Grace’s shrine. He then noticed that I had shredded the boots to get out of
them. Under his breath he cursed me for my stupidity. I can’t say anything any more. My
mouth is dry. Besides, you know everything first-hand yourself. You know how much I
cried for you. How I sprinkled straw on my head 17 as I followed your funeral cortege, how I
beat my head against the wall, only to have them drive me out of my own home and village
and make me an undesirable stranger in the surrounding settlements. You know what it is
to be a homeless vagrant. How did I know every time you performed a miracle, they would
come after me and persecute me. I always believed in your miracles. Many times I
confronted those unbelievers who said “These are all lies. There are no miracles.” And
there were quite a few of those. I had several fights right here in Lower Village. And now,
thirsty and starved, I kneel in your shrine and light these candles. Let the likes of Mash
Taghi see that that shrine of my master, Hussein, is all lit up. Let them say tomorrow that
divine light has shined on His Holiness’s grave. Let them say that the light is a sign of His
Holiness’s grace. I swear you to your own blood that flowed from your throat slit by the
accursed Shemr Ziljawshan to intercede for me before God on the Day of Judgment, that
fifty-thousand-year day, to seek God’s grace for me, as disgraced that I am . . .
THE END
Translated by Faridoun Farrokh
This translation is based on the original Persian text of the story in a collection of short stories
by Houshang Golshiri titled Namaz Khaneh-e Kuchek-e Man [My Little Chapel], published by
Ketab-e Zaman: Tehran, 1975.
In the Iranian funereal custom covering one’s head with straw is the ultimate expression grief for the
decedent and a show of extreme humility before the surviving family of the deceased.
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