She is 22, Mahsan. She dreamed of visiting the capital city she had come to discover. She walks through a Tehran bazaar where she breathes in the scents of spices: cardamom, sumac and saffron. She scents her mask with the delicious smell of taftan bread warm from the oven and the scent of orange blossoms. Her eyes devour faint paintings of Persian miniatures, dimmed by the intense rays of the sun.
Mesmerized by the scribbles that accompany the faces of these women with elegant features, she watches their blue-black hair disappear into the mists of time. She is greeted by these non-boring almond-eyed people, whose peacocks and riders stare at each other. Driven by thirst, she leaves the bazaar and takes a seat Sai Rane The garden is dominated by a jasmine tree with white flowers. Their delicate aroma mingles with the pungent aroma of Darjeeling tea wafting from a suffocating samovar at the entrance to the house, where a stone fountain sits. Like a contemplative Sufi, he sits in the corner, welcoming her.
All her senses awaken, penetrate her soul, and occupy her heart with a meditative adoration, in which she longs to remain indefinitely, to open a wound in her side, to forget the sharp and bright rifts that shattered his faith.
“Dreams, she had them. She wanted to write the beauty of Iran.
Mahsan knew he was dying. These were his last moments away from his loved ones. Tears stream down his swollen face and an oxygen tube in his half-open mouth is helping him in the last moments of his short life. She mourns her death inconsolably. In the distance, she sees hills veiled in subtle purple shades, like mystic dancers, encircling the saffron earth she treads with her feet. Her mind, wandering like a restless ghost, can no longer find the peaceful sleep she once knew.
Blood flows from her side and corpses meet her throughout the night and startle her awake. Monsters climb into the well in the garden. An infamous smell of pestilential rot invades his dreams and upon awakening, the sweet, somewhat pungent taste of dried blood in his mouth. Only jasmine comforts her with a light breeze.
“These are the last moments of my life,” she said to herself. Dreams, she had them. She wanted to write the beauty of Iran. Mahsan thus continues his writings in his head. She knows she’s dying, and she’s constantly communicating in her head with those outside shouting even louder: “Sing, dance, take off your veils.” She feels that victory is not far off: I die free, for in my heart I continue to sing Hafiz and Qayam. Soon poets will rule Iran, I tell myself.
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Shiva Riahi – Cultural guide in French-speaking Switzerland