Madar's Story

It had been twenty-four years since she’d last seen it, but the place looked exactly the same. The estate in Arak, in all its glory, was a gift  from the Qajar dynasty, the rulers of Persia from 1789 to 1925, to her great grandfather, Mirza Isa Ghaem Magham Farahani, for he had served as their trusted chancellor for more than 20 years. 

The mansion, in its powerful display, was a perfect representation of him. An artist-drawn portrait, hung in the entrance halfway, showing a look of a man not common today. His long-black beard, almost as tall as his colossal hat. Eyes looking away from the artist, maybe to show the perfect angle of his sharp features.  

Her father, Aman Allah, as well as the Arak residents talked forever fondly about Mirza Isa Ghaem Magham Farahani: An honorable man, a scholar, an author who had served as the Prime Minister of Iran in 1834, until his tragic betrayal and murder just a year later. Luckily, many of his published books including the Monsha’at were left behind to carry-on his legacy. 

While she was staring at the gorgeous structure before her, her own beauty a reflection upon it, one of the older servants, Fatemeh Kanoom, who had dutifully served in that house since her childhood, rushed to welcome her. 

“Welcome home Ezzat Kanoom (Mrs)!” Others circled around her reaching to kiss her hands and show her their affection. Ezzat was used to attention. In her opinion, too much. Her beauty was like a thick coat of armour, unmatched, with the exception of her own mother, a distinctive beauty, who had left her father’s lands in Bakhtiar and Lorestan to enter this house as a noble bride at such a young age. It drew the eye from suitors galore and some women's disdain. If only she could take it off from time to time. 

It was a joyous moment given the sad circumstances they found themselves in. Alil, one of Asgar’s sons (the old and faithful gardener still living in the house), arrived with the lit ‘esfand’, the seeds and dried fruits of Garden Rue (Peganum harmala), to perform the customary 5000 year old ritual of burning esfand in honor of this beautiful mistress. He held a metal spoon, scooping esfand seeds and heating them until they smoked, giving off a familiar aroma to the servants who believed in it’s “magical” effects. The seeds began their popping sound and between the smoke and sound, more greetings were exchanged,  the esfand working its way to ward off the evil eye.

The esfand see has its true medicinal properties. Used throughout history to cure many ailments and diseases, leprosy being one of them. Iranians believe that the evil eye can be bestowed upon someone through an ill-intended compliment, speaking of a positive endeavor before it happens, and occasions such as this one that Ezzat was in. Coming back home. 

The servants were certain that the evil must have befallen their beloved masters to have to endure so much tragedy. She closed her eyes to embrace the smell and ritual of the burning esfand, not because she believed in such nonsense, but to put the servants at ease. She lowered her head below the metal spoon that was being circled around her head. How she wished that she could truly believe that the disinfecting smoke and popping sound of the seeds could actually shield from the evil intentions--that it could take away all of the unwanted attention from men that seemed to constantly surround her. 

She closed her eyes to breathe the old familiar smell of the house. The delicious milk bread, a specialty of Aligoodarz  (the birthplace of her mother) that was being baked in her mother’s memory, was coming from the kitchen, filling the room and her thoughts. Was it really 24 years, since she was in the kitchen baking with her younger sister Azam, whom she had practically mothered? She recalls their floured faces, in a dream-like arodescense, in their majestic kitchen, while her younger uncles received lessons from the mullah who came to act as the boys’ tutor every morning. What a waste! She thought, as a light tongue-click and hiss escaped her mouth. 

She would forever feel resentful on why it was the boys in the house who received the education. While she and her sister were strongly encouraged to learn cooking instead. Although she could feel happiness from time spent with her little sister learning to cook and spending time with Godsi Khanoom the kind hearted Chef, but still the resentment was there. Conversely, deep down in her un-admitable depths, she was proud of her cooking skills. She had yet to meet someone who could match her skills as a Chef.

Fariba, the youngest of the servants, took her bags,”Ezzat Kanoom, how did you get here? Why didn’t you call us to come pick you up at the station?” 

“Now Fariba, you know better than that. Ezzat Sadat never asks for help! She is my proud daughter,” came the voice of the kind hearted old Chef, Godsi Kanoom. They liked to add the word Sadat, whenever they used her name, as a sign of respect, as this was a title reserved for those thought to be of direct lineage to the prophet Muhammed himself.  Everyone fought to grasp a bag. 

“She is a Ghaem Magham, and her mother’s daughter, that she is, may God bless her soul,” said Asgar Aga, the gardener. With that, a silence fell on the room. The women in the room became teary-eyed, a few others closed their eyes and said their Salavat’s (Islamic prayer saying may peace be upon her) in honor of the sweet lady they had so loved.

“Where would you like to stay?” Mastaneh, the inexperienced servant, asked once more. Godsi Kanoom, pulling herself up while breathing hardly so she could scolded her, “Where do you think silly girl, In her mother’s old room, of course, next to the library” 

In the background, servants still are overcome by excitement and curiosity over the arrival of Ezzat Sadat , and her striking resemblance to her mother. They whispered to each other, how is it possible, that aging and giving birth to five children, in addition to the pollution in Tehran, where she had been living, has only made Ezzat Sadat more beautiful than before. Asgar Aga, glanced an angry look at them, and took her over the charge of her bags, while ordering the younger ones to be careful with the esfand.

As they passed the library, she paused to step in. She looked at the door behind which, once upon a time, a large-boned servant boy, Taghi, had hidden in secrecy to listen to the mullah who had been giving lessons to her uncles. Taghi was tasked to bring tea and dates to the young masters during their tutoring. Unbeknownst to them, Taghi had made it a regular occurrence of hiding behind the door during their tutoring and listening to the lessons. On one particular afternoon, the mullah asked the boys a question about Socrates. “What is the Socratic method?”  To which he received no response. Just as the mullah’s frustration began to set in, a voice rang out with the correct answer. “A dialogue of asking and answering questions to stimulate critical thinking leading to deep ideas and finding underlying presuppositions.”

Wide-eyed, the mullah watched as the young Taghi came from his hiding place. Now angry and flabbergasted, Mullah forcefully escorted the servant boy to Mirza. 

Everyone, including the Mullah, expected and feared that the boy would be punished for his actions. However, Mirza was more impressed by the boy’s actions and aptitude for learning than angered by his disobedience. Instead of disciplining him, from that day forward, young Taghi was included in the tutoring sessions and was able to learn, no longer as a servant, and with no need to hide.

She closed her eyes and pursed her lips into a sad smile. It was in this house that the young lad, Taghi Khan Farahani, would grow up, be educated, and become Amir Kabir Naghashbashi-- one of the greatest Prime Ministers Iranians would ever know. 

She was proud of her Jad, (great grandfather), her blood, dating back all the way to the profit, and her heritage. They had educated young Taghi and forever changed the course of his life, presumably for the better. Hesitantly, she wondered if it was not some of Taghi/Amir Kabir’s sins that brought about all the tragedy in her life. 

Amir Kabir was known as the Iranians’ first reformer. As a ruler he attempted to modernize Iran. First, he took notice of how European powers had intervened in Otooman affairs. So, he removed any possible grievances before a foreign power could claim to be their “protectors.” He was an intelligent man, a highly revered man. Probably due to his roots, he did a lot for most minorities, including Christians and Zoroastrians. 

Still in all of his glory, it is his sin, of which Ezzat was sure God would not forgive, he was responsible for the death of 20,000 innocent people of the Bábi faith. Bábism, the faith that professed that there is only one unknown and incomprehensible God. A God which manifests his unending series of manifestations. The faith was founded in 1844 and flourished in Persia, the faith that became the principles of modern day Bahai religion. Amir Kabir regarded the followers as a threat and repressed them until the execution of the Seven Martyrs of Tehran and the execution of the Báb himself--the herald of the Baha'i Faith. 

Surely, she thought, this mansion and her family as guardians of Amir Kabir were cursed from the heartbreak of the Báb due to his actions. She did not consider herself to be of the superstitious disposition, but what else was there?  

In the last year of his life, Amir Kabir was exiled to Fin Garden in Kashan and murdered by command of Naser al-Din Shah Qajar. She wondered, what if her grandfather had punished him that day, instead of letting him study? What would have his fate been? And the faith of those innocent 20,000 people he killed?

She was lost in thought when Asgar Aga approached and placed his hand on her shoulder.  “As God is my witness, I tried to tell your father, Aman Allah, that you and your sister deserved a chance at education, just as if God had blessed him with a son. You had an astronomical promise, Kanoom Jan. If only your father had taken the time to pay attention to my humble request, you would be the first female Iranan prime minister Kanoom Jan. I am certain of it.” He called her Kanoom Jan. A term of endearment, also to say “dear.”

She leaned over and kissed Asgar’s old cheeks. The dear old man. It should be noted that she was not fond of men often, but he was an exception. Many of her childhood memories included him and his kind gestures. The day her mother died, she ran out to the field and cried her eyes out. Asgar Aga was also fond of her mother. She had always been kind to him and his children. He brought her mother’s favorite horse, gifted to her from Bakhtiar, to the field, and they rode together for hours in silence. 

Her mother was a stunning, sweet, obedient and fragile wife. It was said that when she would enter a room, men and women alike would be mesmerized by the refined movements of her soft body.  Ezzat resembled her beauty immensely, but not her personality by any means.  After her death, Ezzat took the role of a mother for her younger sister until her father, as was expected, decided to take on a second wife, a simple commoner this time, no traces of nobility, nor beauty, neither in her blood nor actions. Ezzat would never dare to tell him how that really made her feel. Seemingly, her sweet mother was so easily forgotten.  

Upon the birth of her first child, also a girl, the commoner, knew she had to quickly get rid of any female attention, towards Ezzat and Azam. Not when their mere presence was a constant reminder of the elegance, and purity of their mother’s blood. At ages 8 and 4, she hurriedly married Ezzat and her sister off to their cousins. Even though, under Islamic law, they were not yet of age to marry. Neither had experienced menstruation. The stepmother cared little and Ezzat was married to her 25-year-old cousin and Azam to his 20 year old brother. Neither given proper time to grieve their mothers’ death, they would be sent to live with their new husbands, the children of their mother’s sister, and their aunt Talabeh in Tehran. In such a small period of time, the girls had lost their mother, their home, their family, and their life as they knew-- it all to be,  a man’s wife.

Now here she was, 24 years later. She was there to pay respects to the father whose orders had shaped her life, and a destiny she had not desired. There grows the seed of her bitterness, not towards her father, a man that she respected, but towards the culture. The male dominated world that imposed such a lack of choices on her. That only saw her worth as an exceptional cook, and nothing more. 

She was the mother of five children, three boys and two girls. What a good, dutiful wife she was, surely he would be proud.  To think, if someone had taken a chance on her the same way Mirza took a chance on that servant boy years ago, where would she be now? 

She walked slowly to her room and wiped the tears away. She attempted to put on some makeup. She needed to give her most dignified face to the servants. After all, with her stepmother dead, as the oldest daughter, she was there as the lady of the house today. 

She sat in the room, appreciating her surroundings. The archways resembled mountains and pillars to the side of each with as much mass and height. How can something this large and beautiful not be made by nature? So exact and by man’s hand. Everything looked the same, though the walls had been freshly painted. 

The Persian rug on the floor was the same as she remembered. It had been a gift to her grandfather from King Fath-’Ali Shah Qajar, who in turn, had gifted it to her mother on their wedding day.  It was an 1834 Tabriz made rug. Hand woven, intricate detail, heavy even by sight. It filled the room as much as the air did. In the middle of the room, a tall peak to show the main entrance and on either side, sprawling horizontal-length to create an open square. To look out from the entrance, the courtyard right in front, and on either sides of it the house stretched out like arms. 

She had imagined this moment so often, the day she would come back home. The day she would dare to look her father in the eyes and ask him why. Why had he not allowed her to study? Why had he sent her away so quickly? 

Her father’s burial was to take place that afternoon. She knew what would follow next, the respectful visits from the villagers, the male descendants of her Jad pouring in, the state lawyers coming to settle accounts, sale of the house, and the many lands her father owned,  the division of the assets, the small family quarrels that would surely follow,  she and her sister, would certainly be left with nothing, after all they were only women. She had no interest in any of it. 

She looked outside of the windows at the stupendous view. The majestic look of Safikhani Mountain on one side and Meyghan Lagoon on the other. How perplexing it is to feel so despondent while bearing witness to such beauty.  She straightened her back, took a deep breath, and  knew in her heart that this would be her last stay in this room, in this house, but Arak would always remain an important part of her being, no matter where she landed. After all, at age 32, she knew exactly who she was, and what her purpose in life was. She knew she would never again, allow a man to dictate her destiny. She was Ezzat Sadat, the daughter of Aman Allah Ghaem Magham Farahani, and of Banoo Massoumeh Dadgar,  the legendary beauty, whose family had ruled over the Baktiari lands for over a century.  Their stories and legends, and the consequences of their actions, would live on, long after this house would be gone. Although this room, with all of its beauty, would be a permanent fixture in her memories. That was all that mattered.