Kader Abdolah - The House of the Mosque

Mahwash was the first woman in the history of the country to show her breasts and wiggle her hips on stage in a conspicuously tight dress. She would raise her plump, bare arms and shake her ample behind. At a certain point she would stick out her backside and sing in her sensuous voice:

To ke az Hend aamadi

baa machin-e Benz aamadi.

Aan qadr budi, aan qadr shodi.

Jun-e man, begu,

in kun kajeh?

Here you are just back from India,

Driving your fancy Mercedes-Benz.

A nobody when you left, a big shot now.

Darling, be honest for once and tell me,

Do you think my backside’s too big?

‘No, no, who told you that?’ the men shouted happily.

‘ Madar shuhar , my mother-in-law!’ she shouted back.

‘ Baa tu lajjeh, she’s just jealous!’ the men bellowed in return.

Even though Mahwash’s picture appeared in the newspapers almost daily, no photographer had ever made a portrait of her. Nosrat had persuaded the owner of the Mulan Ruzh (Moulin Rouge) Theatre, who was a friend of his, to let him take some photographs that would truly immortalise her.

She had agreed to receive him in her own home, because the theatre owner had assured her that Nosrat wasn’t like other photographers, that he wasn’t doing it for the money, but for her.

Just as Nosrat was entering Mahwash’s house, Aqa Jaan and Fakhri Sadat were driving to the railway station to welcome the grandmothers. Behind them was a procession of cars filled with friends and relatives.

The train they were meeting was full of returning pilgrims. They had been travelling for three weeks. First they’d been driven in buses from Mecca to Medina, where the Prophet Muhammad is buried. Then they’d gone from Saudi Arabia to Iraq to see the holy cities of Najaf and Karbala. The tomb of Hussein was in Karbala, and that of Ali in Najaf. Finally they’d taken a boat across the Arvand River, which marked the border between Iran and Iraq, and boarded the train that was to bring them home.

Everyone was thinking of the grandmothers, especially the children, who were looking forward to the presents the pilgrims usually brought back from Mecca, such as watches that glowed in the dark like lanterns and alarm clocks that played sacred songs. There would be rings and bracelets for the girls, and belts decorated with proverbs for the boys. The unforgettable presents were treasured by one and all, for they weren’t ordinary gifts, purchased in any old shop, but gifts from Mecca, the city where the Kaaba, the House of God, was located. The city where Muhammad had been born and where his wife Khadijah, the richest woman in Mecca, had once owned three thousand camels.

The train they had come to meet was a special one that stopped at every major city in the country. It had been designed with the pilgrims in mind. Green was the colour of Islam, so green flags adorned the railway carriages, green banners fluttered from the windows and every hajji had on a green scarf.

The train blew its whistle long before it reached a city and pulled into the station, its headlights gleaming. The moment it stopped, an army band would strike up a welcoming song.

Aqa Jaan parked his car in the square outside the station. The manager, dressed in a special uniform, welcomed him at the top of the stairs and waited for the rest of the family to arrive before ushering them into the VIP lounge, where servants offered them tea and biscuits on silver trays designed especially for the railway. Mosque singers sang melodious verses from sacred texts into hand-held microphones, while old crones tossed esfandi seeds into braziers, filling the room with a fragrant smoke. The waiting relatives treated everyone to sweets and fruit drinks, and railway employees poured rosewater out of silver jugs over the hands of the visitors.

At last the train pulled into the station, and hundreds of pilgrims waved their green scarves at the crowd on the platform. The three railway carriages occupied by the group from Senejan stopped exactly in front of the door to the main hall. One by one the hajjis emerged with their bulging suitcases, while the manager welcomed them back over the loudspeaker.

‘Where are the grandmothers?’ Fakhri Sadat asked.

‘Still in the train, I suppose,’ Zinat Khanom replied. ‘You know them, they’re probably tidying up the compartment so they can leave it spick and span.’

‘Shahbal, why don’t you go and see what’s holding them up?’ Aqa Jaan said. ‘I’m afraid the train’s going to leave with them still on it.’

Shahbal searched through the three railway carriages, but didn’t see the grandmothers. ‘They’re not here!’ he called through one of the windows.

‘Look in the other carriages. Maybe they got lost in the crowd.’

It was a long train, so Shahbal ran from one carriage to the next.

Aqa Jaan approached the manager. ‘My passengers haven’t alighted. They’re probably sitting in the wrong compartment and don’t realise they’re supposed to get out here.’

The manager wrote down their names, went into his office and switched on the loudspeaker. ‘I have an important announcement for hajjis Golbanu and Golebeh. You should get out here. I repeat: hajjis Golbanu and Golebeh, get out here!’

After ten minutes there was still no sign of the grandmothers.

Shahbal came running up. ‘I’ve looked through every compartment and haven’t seen them anywhere. Maybe they got out earlier, in another city.’

The pilgrims were leaving. When the platform was nearly empty, the engine driver climbed back into the train and shut the doors.

The manager’s voice rang out over the platform one last time: ‘I have an urgent announcement for Miss Golbanu and Miss Golebeh. Please report immediately to the manager.’

The conductor waited a moment, then looked at his watch and blew his whistle. The train chugged slowly out of the station, leaving Aqa Jaan and his whole family behind on the platform.

For one solid week Aqa Jaan phoned every railway station between the Arvand River and Senejan, but no one had seen the grandmothers.

He visited all of the recently returned hajjis, but they had no news for him either. The last time anyone had seen the two women had been in Mecca. Everyone had assumed they’d gone off with another group.

The only thing to do was to wait for the travel guides to submit an official report, but they weren’t due back for several weeks.

It didn’t usually rain during the summer, but a few dark clouds had gathered over Senejan and were moving towards the desert. Just as the first drops began to fall, there was a knock at the door.

Shahbal switched on the light and looked out. Hajji Mustafa, the man who’d organised the pilgrimage, was standing by the gate with a suitcase in each hand.

‘Good evening. Is Aqa Jaan at home?’ the hajji asked.

‘Please wait. I’ll let him know you’re here.’

Shahbal went away and came back a few minutes later to usher Hajji Mustafa into Aqa Jaan’s study.

Hajji Mustafa put down the suitcases, embraced Aqa Jaan and launched into his tale: ‘Nothing like this has ever happened before. It’s a strange story. I can’t decide if it’s a blessing or a tragedy. It’s a blessing if they lost their way in the House of God, but a tragedy if they’re somewhere else.’

‘What happened?’

‘Here are their suitcases. The grandmothers disappeared in the desert of Mecca like two drops of water. I searched everywhere, went to every police station, hospital and mosque in Mecca, but I could find no trace of them. They simply disappeared. Up until the last day they were part of the group and were doing fine. They were healthy and happy. Then a strange thing happened. An hour before we were to leave for Medina, they came to my office, left their suitcases by my desk, adjusted their chadors and left, without saying a word. I thought they’d gone to the bazaar one last time to buy some souvenirs, but they never came back. Here are the suitcases. I’m sorry, maybe I should have taken better care of them. Please accept my apologies. I’ll do whatever I can to find them. I promise to keep you informed.’