To Keep the Sun Alive by Rabeah Ghaffari

Author:Rabeah Ghaffari
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781948226103
Publisher: Catapult
Published: 2018-10-31T16:00:00+00:00

MEN

In the orchard, Madjid crouched by a tree watching an ant colony. He was reading a book on the social structures of animals. He flipped to the chapter about ants, then watched the soldiers march out of the hole in perfect formation. Each carried a tiny bit of dirt in its mandibles, which it deposited next to the entrance, only to turn around without resting and return to the hole to bring up more. He had read this book several times and knew that the queen ant lived inside that hole. She had mated with a male that died as soon as it had inseminated her, detached her wings, and started this entire colony. She was not the head of the colony, just another member of the society. Each insect played its part in the service of all. The egalitarian quality of the ant hierarchy fascinated him. The more Madjid looked at nature, the more excited he was to be in the world. He could hear his father calling his name. He reluctantly closed his book and went to join the men.

Shazdehpoor sat with Akbar-Agha and Mohammad under his tree, taking tea in silence. Knowing Ghamar would be occupied all day with Bibi-Khanoom and the kids at Shazdehpoor’s house, Mohammad had closed his shop early, humming, hardly able to contain his glee at this short window of freedom.

Akbar-Agha smiled as he sipped his tea and with a knowing nod to Mohammad said, “So, Shazdehpoor, our wives have thrown you out of your home.”

“Yes, sir. We didn’t have much choice in the matter.”

Mohammad let out a sigh and said, “Are you under the impression that we have ever had one?”

The three men laughed. Madjid paid no mind to them as he buried his head in his book.

Wind blew through the orchard, shaking the trees, along with the scent of pears and plums. Crickets chirred. Bees droned. Finches called and starlings darted from tree to tree, fleeing the threatening cawing of crows. So constant was this melodic drama in the orchard that it faded into the background, unheard.

The three men looked at one another. It was as though they were students in a classroom the teacher had just walked out of. A devilish grin formed on Akbar-Agha’s face as he sprang from his seat and went straight to the kitchen, where Mirza was busy washing vegetables. “Mirza-jan,” he said. “We need some yogurt and cucumbers.”

Mirza’s face lit up as he joined in the conspiracy. “Yes, sir!”

Akbar-Agha sifted through the cupboards, taking out a jar of pistachios and inspecting them. They were roasted. He turned to Mirza and said, “Do we have any raw ones?”

“Yes, sir!”

Mirza grabbed a bag of raw pistachios from the cupboard beneath the sink and dumped them in a bowl. He continued to peel the cucumbers, dicing and adding them to the yogurt, which he then salted, peppered, and covered in dried mint, mixing it all together. With the two bowls in hand, he headed out to the deck.

Akbar-Agha stood at the counter, rolling up his sleeves.

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