Persian Girls (An Iranian Story)

[Rasputin]

From Nahid Rachlin's latest novel, "Persian Girls" (2006 Tarcher/Penguin). Rachlin, born in Iran, came to the United States to attend college and stayed on. She has been writing and publishing novels and short stories, in English. See NahidRachlin.com.

[Rasputin]

“Ali, Ali, stop staring at pigeons and do your work.” Ali often sat in front of his room on the first floor and threw seeds on the ground for the pigeons.

“Nahid, it’s time for you to gain some weight.”

“Manijeh, don’t cling to your mother all the time.”

“Pari, how many times do I have to tell you not to wear that red dress? Go take it off right now.”

He didn’t criticize our brothers, at least not in front of us women.

In the evening Father was rarely home and that was a relief, except perhaps for Mohtaram, who complained, “He goes out to the nightclub with his friends and they drink arak and watch belly dancers and I have to stay behind.”

***

As Pari and I spent more time together, Manijeh, who had been cold to me since I arrived, became outright antagonistic. She was the only sibling who addressed Mohtaram as Maman; the others called her Mother, and I nothing. If I absolutely had to talk to her I went and stood in front of her until she looked at me and then I made my request. I never addressed her directly.

“Maman bought this for me,” Manijeh said, showing off her new dress as I passed her on the porch one afternoon. The dress was white linen with a pattern of pink and yellow cherries. She suddenly pulled my hair so hard that tears came to my eyes. “You aren’t really hurt,” she said. “I just touched your hair. And don’t go and complain to Maman; she won’t listen to you. No one wanted you, that’s why they gave you away.” She spoke in a slow, slurred way, her eyes narrowing in hatred.

“Spoiled brat!” I said. “I hate you.”

“I hate you, too,” she said and then called, “Maman, Maman, did you hear what she said?”

Mohtaram rushed to the terrace. “Apologize to your sister,” she said immediately.

“She started the fight,” I said.

“Liar,” Manijeh said.

“You’re the liar,” Pari said to her, joining us from her room.

“Pari, stop that,” Mohtaram said. “Ever since Nahid came here you’ve become nasty to Manijeh.”

“Nahid has nothing to do with it.”

“All of you be quiet,” Father called from his office.

Mohtaram went into her room and the rest of us dispersed to ours, our sanctuaries from always colliding on the porch. I often wondered what Father and Mohtaram talked about in the privacy of their bedroom. Did they have the same kind of conversations as they had in the open or did they say certain things to each other that they didn’t tell us? They appeared like a fortress to me because Mohtaram almost always took Father’s side, but what about when they were alone together? Mohtaram certainly was mysterious. For instance the way she went to Manijeh’s aid as soon as she asked for something. Pari had to keep repeating her requests before Mohtaram would pay any attention; and she ignored me.

“She looks like an angel,” Mohtaram praised Manijeh to whoever was nearby and, “Isn’t she becoming more and more beautiful?”

Of Pari she said, “She’s healthy-looking.”

But to me Pari was more beautiful than Manijeh. True, Manijeh, with her mass of wavy brown hair, light hazel eyes, and well-proportioned features, was pretty, but Pari’s face projected a vibrancy that Manijeh’s lacked. What did Mohtaram think of my appearance? I had no idea. She never said what she thought. I knew what Father thought: “If only she weren’t so thin.”

Father didn’t treat us sisters with particular favoritism.

Both Father and Mohtaram had respect for and encouraged their sons in whatever interests they had. Cyrus wanted to become an engineer and Parviz a doctor. Father and Mohtaram encouraged their desire to go to America to pursue their education.

Father believed his sons would go even further than he himself had—they had inherited his intellect and determination and had the additional advantage of his financial support. Father had put himself through school. He lost his father at an early age. His father had been mayor of a small town, and his mother mismanaged the money they inherited. Father worked to help support the family and went to school at the same time.

In spite of the fact that our brothers were so high up in the household hierarchy and had much more freedom than us sisters, Pari and I didn’t resent them. There was no competition between us as there was between the sisters. In fact we felt they added something to our lives by introducing us to certain things.

Sometimes Parviz put on records and, holding us sisters one at a time, led us through the tango, fox-trot, and a slower dance he said was popular in America. He played Ping-Pong with us at a table that Father had set up on the terrace mainly for him and Cyrus. He joked with me that he and Cyrus had found me inside a large watermelon on the Karoon River’s bank and brought me home to our parents. He praised me for reading a lot.

Cyrus was more reserved than Parviz but still he bought American items for us from a store near the oil drilling company, where he worked a few hours a week to learn certain skills in preparation for engineering school. They were ordinary household products such as Jell-O or Nescafé but Pari and I felt we were getting a piece of America, as we did from American movies.

Copyright (c) 2006 Tarcher/Penguin
Order "Persian Girls" at amazon.com

[golgol85]

the bond between the siblings is beautiful, family dynamics interesting, and most importantly the genuine emotion in the words of the author make me feel like i am right there with her. mersi siamak.

[Rasputin]

I wanna buy it for next week but i prefer ,read it in Farsi or French !!! lots ppl told me this book is very good novel.

You are very welcome Golgol jan :=) .

[Sepideh_UK]

ohhhhhhh Bless her.

Nice 1. There we go!!! Another iranian who we can be proud of.

Many thanx to Siamak for providing these things.

[Rasputin]

Khosh halam keh enghadar lezat bordin az in mesle man :=)

[Rasputin]