UA31316 Lumen Spring 2024 Final Digital - Flipbook - Page 39
“I’ve seen your house,” said the older man to Forugh, “you live
in a place like that and still call us bourgeois?”
“Being bourgeois isn’t about what you have or don’t have, it’s
about how you behave and think and…”
The younger man interrupted her by reaching for the label
on her new coat, pulling it off and placing it in her palm, saying
sarcastically, “Here you go! I removed your bourgeois label! Now
you belong to the proletariat.”
Forugh, tipsy from alcohol, walked briskly towards the house
crying aloud, “Can you believe these idiots? They say they’ve
removed my bourgeois label!” waving the label in her hand. The
younger man looked at Kaveh and said, “It must be difficult to be
around her, to make small talk and pretend nothing’s the matter.”
Everyone around them fell silent.
“I don’t have to do anything. I am talking to her because I want
to,” Kaveh said, and walked off.
Almost four decades later – after Kaveh had become a
prominent journalist and photographer – I read about his death
by landmine near Kifri in Iraq, just a few hours after he’d said to
his colleague, “When I’m in situations like these, I feel I am me.”
It made me think that they must’ve felt comfortable in each other’s
presence because Forugh was a restless artist and Kaveh was on his
way to becoming one.
I walked towards the young man – who was still talking about the
bourgeois and the proletarian in an assertive tone – turned my head
to the left and, pretending not to see him, bumped into him and
sent his scarlet drink all over his white shirt.
“What the hell!”
“I’m sorry,” I said, as insincerely as I could and walked away.
I could see Forugh through the glass window, standing in a
corner of the living room with a group of people, chatting and
laughing. I poured my water in the hoz, glanced at her one last
time, and left.
Excerpt taken from chapter six pp 74-76.
LUMEN
Only Sound Remains –
the poem which inspired
the title of the book
By Forugh Farrokhzad (1934-1967).
Translation by Dr Hossein Asgari, from his book
of the same title.
Why should I stop, why?
The birds have gone in search of the blue direction
the horizon is vertical,
the horizon is vertical and movement: fountain-like…
And day is a vastness
which doesn’t fit into the limited imagination of
newspaper worms.
Why should I stop?
The path passes through the capillaries of life
The cultivating environment of the womb of the moon
will kill the corrupt cells
and in the chemical atmosphere after sunrise
it is only sound,
sound that will be absorbed by the particles of time.
Why should I stop?...
The unmanly one,
has hidden his lack of manliness in darkness,
and the cockroach … ah
when the cockroach talks
Why should I stop?
Collaboration of lead letters is in vain,
Collaboration of lead letters will not save the lowly thought…
I’m a descendant of the trees
breathing the stale air depresses me
a bird which had died advised me to commit flight to memory
The ultimate object of all forces is to be united,
to be united with the origin of the bright sun,
and to be poured into the light’s intelligence.
It’s natural that windmills rot.
Why should I stop?
I hold the unripe bunches of wheat under my breasts
And breastfeed them…
