partly because of the physical separation of the sexes, and partly because they had their own news to share. After twenty years of marriage, Batool Khanoum had got a divorce, the first woman aged over fifty to do so in the neighbourhood. Nobody knew the reasons for the divorce, but it was a scandal. ‘What’s the point?’ said Fatemeh. ‘After all those years, I just don’t understand it. How could she do that to her children? They have to live with the shame.’
Batool Khanoum had been encouraged to divorce her husband by her own children. They had all had enough of his crippling opium habit and his abusive behaviour. Women can only divorce husbands with their permission, unless they can prove that a man has failed to fulfil his marital duties (which includes impotency and insanity), so Batool’s daughter had helped her by secretly filming her father hitting Batool Khanoum and smoking opium. When the judge saw the grainy footage on Batool’s mobile phone, he granted her a divorce on the spot. Batool Khanoum had already experienced the fallout of a divorce in the Meydan, for a divorcee was considered to have loose morals. Unbeknown to the women now disdainfully discussing her divorce, several of their husbands had already tried their luck with her. Batool Khanoum had slapped each of them across the face. Apart from Ozra’s husband, who was attractive and rich.
‘Getting a divorce is failing yourself and God,’ said Somayeh.
‘Everyone’s getting divorced these days and the whole of society’s falling apart. It’s the government’s fault for making a divorce easier than opening a bank account!’ said Hamideh, not knowing that her best friend Akram had been begging her husband for a divorce for over a decade, but he refused to give it to her. Even though Hamideh tried to keep her opium addiction quiet, she thought it far more socially acceptable than a divorce.
Opium has been part of the culture for centuries. It is a classless drug smoked the length and breadth of Vali Asr and beyond, a panacea for everything from aches to boredom to joblessness.
The heaps of food being laid on the table were enough to distract the hungry guests from politics and divorce. At that moment too the entryphone buzzed. It was Fatemeh’s sister Zahra, whom she had not seen for five years. The falling-out had been about money, as falling-outs in the city so often are. Fatemeh had asked to borrow some and Zahra said they had none to lend. It was a brazen lie. Zahra had married into a family of wealthy carpet traders and her husband Mohammad had already started the upward climb to a glitzier lifestyle. Zahra had not invited Fatemeh to their new home, scared that in the profusion of silverware and the Italian leather furniture the truth would be revealed – which was that Zahra’s family were now richer than everyone they had left behind in the Meydan. Mohammad and Haj Agha kept out of it. They had tried to intervene between the competing sisters’ feuds in the past and both had emerged as injured parties, heads and tongues bitten off by jealous rage. Recently word had reached Fatemeh that Zahra was repentant, and more importantly that she was ill with acute diabetes. When Zahra heard Fatemeh’s voice on the phone she had cried, and when Fatemeh had invited her older sister to Haj Agha’s pilgrimage party she had cried some more. It helped matters that Haj Agha was now self-sufficient. It reassured Zahra that a rapprochement would not mean having to part with cash.
Zahra looked better with diabetes. Her fatter face had plumped out her wrinkles. Standing beside her was her husband Mohammad and their two sons, now grown up and one with a new wife in tow. The unmistakable smell of money emanated from all of them. Ambergris and musk. Velvet-smooth nappa leather. Chador of softest silk. Fingers and lobes laden with gold. Mohammad was hugging a gigantic casket of clashing-coloured flowers bound with pastel ribbons, a generous gift
Batool Khanoum had been encouraged to divorce her husband by her own children. They had all had enough of his crippling opium habit and his abusive behaviour. Women can only divorce husbands with their permission, unless they can prove that a man has failed to fulfil his marital duties (which includes impotency and insanity), so Batool’s daughter had helped her by secretly filming her father hitting Batool Khanoum and smoking opium. When the judge saw the grainy footage on Batool’s mobile phone, he granted her a divorce on the spot. Batool Khanoum had already experienced the fallout of a divorce in the Meydan, for a divorcee was considered to have loose morals. Unbeknown to the women now disdainfully discussing her divorce, several of their husbands had already tried their luck with her. Batool Khanoum had slapped each of them across the face. Apart from Ozra’s husband, who was attractive and rich.
‘Getting a divorce is failing yourself and God,’ said Somayeh.
‘Everyone’s getting divorced these days and the whole of society’s falling apart. It’s the government’s fault for making a divorce easier than opening a bank account!’ said Hamideh, not knowing that her best friend Akram had been begging her husband for a divorce for over a decade, but he refused to give it to her. Even though Hamideh tried to keep her opium addiction quiet, she thought it far more socially acceptable than a divorce.
Opium has been part of the culture for centuries. It is a classless drug smoked the length and breadth of Vali Asr and beyond, a panacea for everything from aches to boredom to joblessness.
The heaps of food being laid on the table were enough to distract the hungry guests from politics and divorce. At that moment too the entryphone buzzed. It was Fatemeh’s sister Zahra, whom she had not seen for five years. The falling-out had been about money, as falling-outs in the city so often are. Fatemeh had asked to borrow some and Zahra said they had none to lend. It was a brazen lie. Zahra had married into a family of wealthy carpet traders and her husband Mohammad had already started the upward climb to a glitzier lifestyle. Zahra had not invited Fatemeh to their new home, scared that in the profusion of silverware and the Italian leather furniture the truth would be revealed – which was that Zahra’s family were now richer than everyone they had left behind in the Meydan. Mohammad and Haj Agha kept out of it. They had tried to intervene between the competing sisters’ feuds in the past and both had emerged as injured parties, heads and tongues bitten off by jealous rage. Recently word had reached Fatemeh that Zahra was repentant, and more importantly that she was ill with acute diabetes. When Zahra heard Fatemeh’s voice on the phone she had cried, and when Fatemeh had invited her older sister to Haj Agha’s pilgrimage party she had cried some more. It helped matters that Haj Agha was now self-sufficient. It reassured Zahra that a rapprochement would not mean having to part with cash.
Zahra looked better with diabetes. Her fatter face had plumped out her wrinkles. Standing beside her was her husband Mohammad and their two sons, now grown up and one with a new wife in tow. The unmistakable smell of money emanated from all of them. Ambergris and musk. Velvet-smooth nappa leather. Chador of softest silk. Fingers and lobes laden with gold. Mohammad was hugging a gigantic casket of clashing-coloured flowers bound with pastel ribbons, a generous gift
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