From Behind the Walled Garden

By F.A. Adams

This is a story of love, passion, and political upheaval at the turn of the century in Persia. A young woman struggles against oppression in her society as a revolution rages on between constitutionalists and monarchists. Torn between two loves, Princess Yasamin struggles to keep her own identity in this poetic and sensitive tale.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Feb 5, 2002
• ISBN: 9780595733736

F.A. Adams

F.A. Adams has extensively researched Middle Eastern history while writing this work. This book is a culmination of 3 years of study of the political and social upheaval in early 20th century Persia.

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

The city of Rey, no larger than a village in 1906, lay asleep at the edge of the Iranian Plateau. For thousands of years it had been where it was, and for thousands more it was to stay there, slumbering. The sky above was cloudless, and at the lower end near the horizon, a powdery mist of desert dust lingered motionlessly at the hours before dawn. The whole heart of Persia sat on the unchanging plateau of bare desert surrounded by bare mountain.

From the rooftop of the andaroon, the inner wing of Prince Jahan Shah Mirza’s house, the desert was distant. The flat mud roof was a vista to the outside world where during daylight hours men bought and sold, witnessed and expressed, fought for and surrendered just about everything. The cupola of the mosque and shrine of Shah Abdol Azim glistened in the early dawn with its exquisite tile work on the dome and minarets which stood proudly against the turquoise sky. Like a sword cutting the sky into night and dawn, the mullah’s call to prayer rang through the silence. Then suddenly a flock of pigeons soared into flight in order to rouse the inhabitants of the sleepy town.

When the sun rose this August morning, Princess Yasi had already been up for almost an hour. She had said her prayers, had her sweet tea and bread, and had come back to the mosquito-netted bedding on the flat rooftop to take a nap in the cool of the morning. The rest of the household was late today. They had all come to the house in Rey to escape the turmoil in Tehran on the pretext of paying their respects to the dead at the shrine of Shah Abdol Azim. Perhaps the rest of the household felt it was necessary to relax and forget the events in Tehran, but not Yasi. She was brought here by her father to contemplate marriage to Nemat Khan, son of the troublesome Sohrabi family. If her father should ask her to marry him, she must obey, for her father’s opinion was of utmost importance to her. He was no ordinary father: he talked to her and her sisters, he showed interest in them, and he didn’t seem to regret that he had no sons to stand by him in these volatile times.

The political situation in Tehran had been extremely tense these last few years, at least that’s what Jahan Shah Mirza had told Yasi. He had also told her that in the year of her birth, 1890, the first protests of the modern era occurred. The Tobacco Concession disturbances were the first time the people had expressed their will. She was sixteen now, and her father knew that he could talk to her about such masculine things as politics: the struggle for a constitution, the economy and wisdom of giving concessions to foreign countries, or the poverty and misery of most of their countrymen. Her younger sisters were bored with all this, but didn’t dare express it to Jahan Shah Mirza. They were children, just girls, and maybe, after all, her father did miss having a son to ride with during the hunting seasons, but he never said anything about it to Yasi.

In fact, his reference to her femininity only came up when she went out. He made sure she was always accompanied by a chaper-one. He incessantly warned her to keep her face covered outside of the andaroon, so men would not catch a glimpse of her beauty. He made sure her mother had warned about men’s desire, and the destruction that it might bring on her.

Perhaps because she had come so close to death the previous year, her father had spent time with her, had shown his love, sitting quietly by her bed, talking to her about many things, particularly, his favorite subject, the history of Persia. After her illness he had told her that the outbreak of cholera had devastated the soul of the people of Tehran. For out of every family, at least one person had perished. Yasi was the one in her family who had contracted the disease and had been on her death-bed, but somehow through the grace of Allah, the prayers of Jahan Shah and Lady Monir, and the efforts of the doctors, she had passed by the gates of death and had not entered. Her father had been exceptionally tender toward her, and he and her mother had nursed her back to health, being at her side vigilantly, day and night. Yes, it was awkward that her father conversed with her in such a manner, had made her aware of history just as if she were his son. It was unusual, and she knew that her mother did not approve.

However, on this particular day in August, her father’s generosity and her mother’s concerns were far removed from her rooftop world. On this morning the panorama from her elevated position gave her a sense of helplessness which she could not define. Either the vastness of the scene or the emptiness and aridity which stretched before her, pinched her into a foreboding that the forces of the unfriendly and hostile desert were again at work. Mother nature was not a nurturing mother at the edge of the desert, but a cruel and vindictive step-mother who greedily kept life-giving rain from the inhabitants of this land. What would become of them all during this infernal struggle? Perhaps her father had put such thoughts into her head.

It was past seven when the cry of the servants was heard that someone was knocking the foothold off the door. Before anyone could collect himself, Assad, Jahan Shah’s faithful steward was screaming.

Prince Jahan Shah Mirza, my lord, the news is out of Tehran that the Shah has signed the Constitution.

Jahan Shah broke his prayer and meditation and came out of his room into the courtyard to address the steward.

Now what are you telling me?

The Constitution, the Constitution was signed by our Majesty, Mozaffar ed Din Shah, screamed Assad, not containing his excitement in the least.

And why are you beside yourself? What change is that going to bring your lot or mine? Calm down, Allah be merciful, calm yourself. Where did you hear this? the aggravated Jahan Shah asked.

In the bazaar.

And where did the merchants hear this?

They said everyone knows.

Everyone? Go get my horse ready. I’m going to the Telegraph Office.

Princess Yasi had inconspicuously stepped in the connecting room. As her father returned, she ran through the doorway.

Father, will you find out what happened to the Sohrabi family? Nemat Khan’s father was imprisoned you said, did you not, Father?

Yes, yes dear Yasi. I will find out what has happened to the family. Jahan Shah Mirza had a consoling voice.

Will not Nemat Khan be devastated if his father is in danger?

You needn’t worry about the marriage. It will not be postponed again. I will not have it. This is truly an annoyance, said her father angrily.

Yasi did not understand him. She had not been told that her marriage had already been postponed once before. She did not care if the marriage should be postponed indefinitely. Who is this Nemat? She had not even seen a picture of him. Her father had promised to bring a photograph, but he hadn’t done so as yet. She felt a slight shock at the idea that her father who talked of everything, had forgotten to tell her that her marriage was postponed before. Why was it postponed? Was this Nemat Khan unavailable; was he in prison like his father who wanted a constitution more than anything else?

She heard the sound of horses’ hoofs as she came back from her thoughts. That was her father and Assad riding to the Telegraph

Office. As the sound receded, she again thought of her father who suddenly seemed to be less than the confidant he always was. She thought of her betrothed, Nemat Khan, and the fact that she didn’t want to marry him or anyone at all at this moment. But despite her wishes, despite her apprehensions, she knew she must be strong and face the changes that were to take place in her life. Her mother had specifically told her so.

She bravely imagined the household she would have to go to. Would she be able to stay in Tehran, or must she go to Hamedan and then the village of Harsin where the Sohrabi family had their many parcels of land? Must she endure the sorrow of separation from her family? It was too painful to think of such things, so she dismissed her thoughts and went into the courtyard to find her mother.

No one was there. The pool in the middle of the courtyard was filled with goldfish who swam vigorously about with no place to go. They too were trapped in a contained world, where the danger of a prowling neighborhood cat was always a threat and escape impossible. It was a bright day; there were bright days, always bright days. When it snowed or rained, the moisture vanished quickly into the parched earth. There were never clouds to blot or blur the sun, and the sun was the master of this ancient land of fire worshippers. Perhaps the goldfish were privileged to live in the pool, a cool haven in the dry desert, in water instead of Zoroaster’s Fire.

Yasi could see her reflection in the pool against the orange glitter of the goldfish. Baji, the Turkish nanny who had helped raise her, always told her she was beautiful, but Yasi had little understanding of beauty. She understood the beauty of the sky, the flowers, the goldfish, but not human beauty. Baji had told her that beauty such as hers could get a prince of wonderful attributes who would present her with jewels and riches beyond compare. She didn’t understand the power of such beauty as she looked at her own reflection in the algae-ridden fish pond. Was it that her eyes were large golden brown marbles or that her ears lay flat against her head? Was it her natural curls or white teeth? None of these could make her understand what Baji meant. Baji was an old woman of sixty, after all, and had not had any tutors to instruct her in writing, the reading of the Koran , or arithmetic like Yasi and her sisters.

From behind she suddenly heard Baji’s voice.

Princess Yasi, are you feeding the goldfish?

Yasi turned and looked at the loving nanny with whom she was most comfortable ever since she could remember. She loved and respected her mother, but she had spent more time with her nanny than any other person.

No, I was just thinking about them, not feeding them.

Why don’t you come with me in the cool dry cellar before the sun gets too hot, and I’ll tell you stories about Qum and the day you were born, just like you always want to hear. Come, dear Yasi, don’t sit there in the sun.

She followed Baji to the cellar and sat on the rug by the tiled fountain. Her father had directed his mason to build the inlayed mosaic pool to cool the cellar on hot summer days. The splashing sound of the water pulled up her spirit again. Yasi listened to Baji as she began to speak, pouring tea from the china teapot on the top rim of the samovar in the corner.

It was a beautiful summer morning the day you were born. Of all things, on that day, the clouds had gathered above the whole city of Qum, and the intense heat of the sun was hidden. A little blessed rain was falling, and this was a very good omen, very good, Baji was reciting.

Yasi had heard the story many times, but she still enjoyed it. Baji always embellished it by telling her how different the day was. She was born to Prince Jahan Shah Mirza and Lady Monir who had waited years to be blessed with a child. The clock had struck ten before the mid-wife could fetch the house-boy to run to the Telegraph Office and inform the Prince that Lady Monir had given birth to a female child. The mid-wife wasn’t sure that the Prince wished to come because such a nobleman could not be interested in the birth of a daughter. Why should he concern himself with it? He would have found out soon enough. However, the Prince had given strict orders to her to let him know as soon as the event took place.

When the houseboy reached the Telegraph Office, he had dared not go into Jahan Shah Mirza’s impressive room. He was frightened to bring the news that the child was a girl and not a boy. The Prince might have struck him out of disappointment, but the boy was saved by an employee who questioned him and then reported to the Prince. The Prince, however, was overjoyed, much to everyone’s surprise, and ran into the street causing a lot of commotion, hitting into things and knocking them over. The houseboy ran after him, and as they ran, idle boys and chickens ran along with them. The donkeys had started braying and the roosters had started crowing, all confused by the excitement that had disrupted the quiet morning.

The Prince was exhilarated as he ran along the narrow streets and alley ways. At last God had bestowed His grace on him, and the barren wife of six years had mothered a child. He had walked quickly through the narrow streets with the horde of children and animals following him and had thought of names to name his daughter. He had thought of long regal names, such as Azarmidokht-e-Goshtasp Bande or Purandokht-e-Javan Shir, as he had tried to avoid the mud puddles made by the rain and the water canals in the alleys. He thought of grand ancient names of forgotten queens and princesses like Mondana or Roxana. Suddenly, he had smelled a whiff of jasmine from behind a walled garden, that unearthly fragrance, that angelic aroma; he knew then what to name his little daughter. She was to be called Yasamin, this most wonderful fragrance, this most delicate flower, this the poet’s jasmine. Praise be to Allah, the beneficent and merciful!

Baji’s favorite part of the story was when Jahan Shah had knocked on the door and entered the courtyard where women had gathered for the occasion and were talking, laughing, and eating all at once.

They had all suddenly covered their faces with their chadors and had shut their mouths when he entered.

Where is my daughter, you cackling hens? he had shouted.

The women had scattered about the courtyard like fleeing pigeons and pointed to the upper room where Lady Monir was resting after her ordeal. Making three steps one, the Prince had rushed to find the baby and her mother.

All right, let me have her, he had cried.

The mid-wife was flabbergasted that so important a man wanted to hold a baby girl, but she was too frightened of the stern Prince to argue. Jahan Shah had looked at Yasi with pleasure and had put her in the care of her mother and Baji, who until this very day were responsible for her well-being.

The story made her smile. No matter how often she heard it, it pleased her and took her mind off of all other things. But after her kind nanny finished the tale, she was glum again, thinking of what her future would be or whether she would have any choices at all. To be born at the edge of the desert, in the dusty city of Qum, at a time of change and turmoil was a most frightening occasion for the daughter of a prince eight times removed from the royal crown of the Qajars. But before she could start grieving about this, she heard her father’s voice somewhere in the courtyard, ordering the family and servants to ready themselves for the journey back to Tehran.

Yasi ran up the cellar stairs and into the courtyard.

Father, father, what is it? Why do we have to go back?

We must hurry, Yasamin. God only knows what is happening in Tehran. The Shah has issued a decree promising a constitution. I must find out if my post for the Telegraph Office in Hamedan has cleared. I don’t know what has become of Nemat. There are rumors he might have been shot.

Oh God, cried Yasi. Maybe I need not marry him, Father, if he’s dead I mean.

What are you talking about, Yasi. Go find your mother and sisters and get ready to go back.

Yasi obeyed. Her spirit was soaring and her breath was heavy with excitement just at the thought of a chance that her future husband might be shot.

I hope he’s shot in the chest, she thought with relish.

CHAPTER 2

The journey to Tehran took almost half a day with Jahan Shah Mirza’s retinue of horses, mules, and wagons. The women were driven in a special carriage behind the small caravan to ensure their privacy and to keep them from the stealthy glances of the male household servants. Disturbed and gloomy from the effects of the sudden upheaval from Rey, they had little to say cordially.

Jahan Shah Mirza was at the head of his caravan on the white Arabian which carried him towards Tehran with a sense of urgency. The political unrest in the city had started with the reign of Mozaffar ed Din Shah and culminated through the winter of 1905 and 1906 when protesters took sanctuary in the mosques, to shield them from the Shah’s troops. Early summer was very violent, and Jahan Shah had told Yasi he feared the pressure on the Shah would upset all government and order in the country. Already bands of highwaymen were attacking travelers. As Yasi looked at the stretch of desert facing her, she too was afraid. Dry tumbleweed rolled across the plateau, aiming to lead them astray, away from Tehran at the foot of the Alburz Range and into the wilderness. The highway robbers were waiting for unsuspecting travelers, and the wilderness was ready to engulf them with its own haunting emptiness.

Her mother hated to travel, even short distances such as the journey they were on today. She was in an argumentative mood, which pushed Yasi to the verge of tears a few times. Lady Monir was displeased by her meaningless chatter with her younger sisters, Parvin and Nasrin, at the nursery rhyme she was humming in faithful monotony, or at her deliberate silence later. There was no pleasing the Lady today.

However, Lady Monir was not totally at fault. It was hot and dusty in the carriage, and as the sun climbed toward the zenith of the sky, it became almost unbearable. Yasi, her sisters, and Lady Monir were all clad in black silk chadors, veils which covered them from head to toe. Since the steward, the male cook, and the houseboy were ever present, sometimes glancing into the carriage, Lady Monir was especially strict with the girls to cover their faces. So when the little caravan reached the outskirts of Tehran, Yasi was thankful. Soon they would be home in the garden of the inner wing, hidden from male glances. There they could shed their black chadors, perform ablution for the mid-day prayers, and eat in the cool cellar.

From a distance she saw other groups of travelers with horses, carriages, and camels. All were converging onto the capital through one of the twelve gates, the Portal of Rey. The ramparts and fosse which surrounded the city gave it an impenetrable strength, and at the same time, a contained, controlled, and unapproachable majesty. Perhaps the city was female; that was why she was so well guarded. Yasi knew that inside her walls, the city’s inhabitants were protected from the salt desert which pushed continuously at her gates.

Suddenly she noticed a cloud of dust approaching their caravan which quickly transformed into a horseman on a stallion. As he approached, Jahan Shah Mirza recognized him and galloped ahead to meet him. They halted and conversed for a while and then came back towards the caravan. Yasi couldn’t see the horseman’s face because he had covered his head and mouth with a white cloth. Only his eyes were visible, dark and penetrable eyes. He wore heavy, well made black leather riding boots, in which he had tucked his pants like a Russian Cossack. His torso was clad with a dark tunic, around which he had wrapped a bright red cummerbund. His neck was protected from the burning rays of the sun with a green scarf. Like the tricolor flag of Persia, he sat upon his horse letting the wind wave the green, white, and red. Her father seemed to be steering this picture of strength and grace up to the carriage where the girls were eyeing the scene with curiosity. Yasi sensed that her father was trying to hide the identity of the horseman from the domestic servants and the steward. He waved them on to continue their march towards Tehran’s main gate, while he kept the horseman at the rear of the carriage whispering words which Yasi could not decipher clearly. She only heard the words constitution, promise, and Shah once or twice. She then heard astonishment and surprise in her father’s voice. She recognized the name Nemat Khan and finally, God be with you. At this point the horseman dashed past the carriage and towards the city gate at a remarkable speed.

Yasi turned to her mother and pleaded. Please, ask Father who that was, my Lady.

Hush! Jahan Shah Mirza will tell me if he feels I should know. Stop being so curious, Yasi, and you two—Pari, Nasi—be quiet.

Mother, the rider covered his face from the servants like us. Maybe he is really a girl, giggled Nasrin, who was only seven years old and had not yet been fully instructed to hold her tongue.

Be quiet, admonished Lady Monir sternly.

The carriage started to move towards the city at top speed, and the girls bounced and jostled up and down reeling with laughter, whichmade their mother finally smile.

* * *

Coming home was all of what Yasi expected. When they arrived in the inner wing of the Tehran house, she felt protected. The courtyard had a big pool in the center of it, around which was a duct to channel the excess water and lead it to a drain at one end. The sound of flowing water soothed the fatigue of the journey out of her. All around the stone paved yard were flower beds with rose bushes and honeysuckle vines. Her father had also had the gardener plant grapevines which were trained onto an arbor that provided not only shade but also fruit. She went and sat under it, looking all around the courtyard which had been home for so long. She closed her eyes and envisioned her home which was only a flicker of an eyelid away, imagining it again and again in more vivid form than it was in reality.

All the rooms were built around the yard and opened on