Women Without Men Read Free

could she talk like that to Houshang Khan, telling him to sit down for a frank conversation, telling him that it was the factories that produced the sweaters. If she mentioned the sweaters, she would have to tell him about the thousand hands. He would never understand.
How could she tell him, for instance, that with the factories producing thousands of sweaters, there would be no need for her to be trained and oriented as a knitter?
    Well, there was no choice. She contemplated staying behind and planting herself when the winter came. She should have asked the arborists as to the best time to plant saplings. She didn’t really know. It didn’t matter. She would stay for the planting. From a sapling she would grow into a tree. She wanted to be planted near the river and grow leaves darker than algae so she could seriously challenge the water of the pool. As a tree she would sprout offshoots that would spread to the entire orchard and cover it so thickly that they would have to cut down all the cherry trees to make room for the Mahdokht tree. Soon it would spread to the rest of the continent. Americans would buy shoots of it to plant in California and colder climates, although they would mispronounce it “Madokt.” Soon, as a result of widespread usage in other languages, the name would be corrupted to “Medok” or “Madok.” Four centuries from now etymologists would passionately argue that both terms share the same root, “Madik,” and it was originally from Africa. The botanists on the other hand would raise objections that a cold-climate tree could not grow in Africa.
    Mahdokht beat her head against the wall repeatedly. She broke down and started crying. As she sobbed violently, she thought that she would take a tour of Africa. She wanted to be a tropical tree. This was what she wanted with all her heart. It is always the heart’s desire that drives one insane.

Fa’iza
    AFTER SEVERAL DAYS OF DOUBT and hesitation Fa’iza made up her mind at four in the afternoon on August 5, 1953. Silence was no longer feasible. If she waited any longer everything would collapse. She’d better stand up in her own defense. Even so, despite the fact that she felt empowered by the decision, it took her well over an hour to get dressed. Slowly and deliberately she put on her stockings, a blouse, and a lightweight cotton skirt. During the process she paused to think, what if Amir Khan is there. The thought sent a rush of heat through her body. With him around, she wouldn’t be able to say what she wanted, or say anything at all. She would have to hold back and endlessly revise what she was going to say.

    â€œI’m aging,” she told herself as she stood in front of the mirror powdering her nose. At twenty-eight years and two months she was not old; she just looked prematurely aged.
    She put on her shoes and picked up a handbag before going downstairs. Nana Jan, her ancient grandmother, was sitting on a bench gazing at the reflecting pool in the middle of the courtyard. The clacking of Fa’iza’s heels on the steps distracted her.
    â€œAre you going out?” she asked.
    â€œYes.”
    â€œNot a good idea. Demonstrations everywhere.”
    The neighbors had the radio on and the noise reached the courtyard. Fa’iza stopped momentarily. Nana Jan was right.
    â€œAt least wear a chador,” advised Nana Jan.
    Wordlessly Fa’iza turned around and went upstairs. From under piles of clothing she brought out the black chador she wore at funerals and on religious occasions. She put it on. The heavy folds of the material made her look somewhat angular. Amir Khan would tease her, should he be there. She didn’t mind being teased by him most of the time, for instance, for her inability to find a husband, but not for looking the way she did in a chador. That would likely make her cry—not a wise thing to do in front of Amir Khan. Any way, she had no choice,