‘The Grand Lady of My Soul’ by Goli Taraghi


From Little Star:

Kashan. I’ve arrived, and I’m tired. I head toward the desert. Being a stranger, I lose my way. The air is permeated with a kind of wet, invisible, sweet-smelling particles that please the senses. The wind smelling of grass, wet herbs, and blooming flowers is so fragrant it is as if it has blown over tree-lined skies.

I asked, “Mr. Haydari, what is your share in this revolution?”

He was trembling. Sleepless with fear of famine and pillage, he had
locked his doors, watching the uproar in the street through the cracks
in the window.

My wife said, “I don’t trust our landlord. I have a feeling he is tied
to the anti-revolutionaries.”

The city is tense, wide awake. Windows keep opening and shutting.
There are sporadic gunshots and distant mayhem. A building is on fire,
and total strangers are pursuing each other in dark alleys.

None of this bothers my father. “This too shall pass,” he says. He is
always looking for the best-quality raisins for his homemade wine.

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