Free Wedding Song by Farideh Goldin Page B

few coins for a beaten-up aluminum pan for hot water, another for cold, and a bucket with a rope tied to the handle for pulling the water out of the water hole.
    The dampness seeped through my dress as soon as we stepped inside. Wide columns and arches supported the vaulted ceiling of the main building. A few small, fogged-covered windows on top were the only sources of light. When my eyes got used to the darkness, I saw the two water holes at the end of the hall, one for cold and one for hot water. I had pulled water out of our well in the kitchen for cooking many times, and, therefore, I was efficient in retrieving water for bathing. Nonetheless, every time I dropped the bucket in, I worried that its weight might pull me down. I was short and did not have much leverage dangling through the window. I competed with a stream of naked women who lined up by the hole to draw water, and, as I looked around, I appreciated my grandmother’s forcefulness in securing a spot away from the busy area for us.
    She had eyed a spot close to a pile of burning coals to warm the
hamam
and told us to claim it, and when the others around complained, she used her usual tactic, “Do you know who I am?” She gave them a long stare, and put her henna dish by the column. “I’m the widow of the great rabbi.” The other women moved a few steps away.
    Like everything else in our lives, social standing in the community determinedone’s space in the bathhouse. The farther one sat from the door and the traffic, the higher was her position in the society. I didn’t question the class difference. I assumed that it was our right. In the same way, most people with lower status in the community succumbed to it and did not try to sit in the higher position. They made themselves comfortable by the drafty door and in the line of the traffic.
    We spread our belongings around so other women would not crowd us. My grandmother poured the henna into a small container, mixed it with warm water, and set it on hot coals to activate the color. I soaked the
konar
leaves and the yellow mud in warm water. We wet ourselves and waited for the warmth of the
hamam
to soften the dead outer layer of our skin.
    My grandmother took big dollops of henna, isolated a lock of her hair and meticulously ran the henna through it, then did another section and another. Finally, she piled her long hair on top of her head and tied it with an old kerchief. She smeared the rest on her hands and feet and waited for the color to set.
    We peeled off the old skin with the wash cloth, and, after many apologies, we each designated someone to whom we would turn our backs for scrubbing. “
Bebakhshid
, please forgive me,” everyone
taarof
ed. The polite answer was “A flower doesn’t have a front or a back.”
    We took turns scrubbing my grandmother’s body so she wouldn’t exert herself. I took the wooden comb and combed her henna-reddened hair and let it cover her back. Since she usually kept her hair in braids and covered under a kerchief, I seldom saw her hair framing her face. I felt proud to be the one chosen to groom it.
    The washer-woman stopped by with our lunch, clean clothes, and my grandmother’s hookah. We sat cross-legged and naked in a circle and spread the lunch on a plastic cloth. The
koofteh
tasted even better a day old and cold. The strong flavors of tarragon and dill were mixed through the chopped meat and rice. We made sandwiches with flat bread, a piece of the big meatball, fresh green onions, and basil, and squeezed a bit of lime juice on top.
    The limeade washed down the food, cooling my insides, and giving me goose bumps. My grandmother took a puff of her
ghalyan
and offered it to my mother and aunts. They were not smokers, but the honor was too great to pass. Each one took a puff, and they even allowed me a turn. I bent over, took the wooden piece in my mouth and drew hard. I gagged andchoked on the smoke. Everyone laughed. I caught my breath and asked for another