Bibi Djan, The Rug Weaver
Introduction Grandma Helen (Heghineh) Davidian spent early mornings at her writing desk. She didn’t sleep as much as the rest of her family, and the extra time was invested in telling stories about the lives of young Persian women in the early 1900s.
Part 15 His head dropped and the tears rolled down his cheeks into his beard, while the nurse stood silently watching the tragedy of the little man, and waiting for an answer.
Then he lifted his head heavily and said in a quivering whisper, “Save my child!”
His knees sagged and he slumped on the bench. After a few moments he made a great effort to rise, but he could not. He wanted to run after the nurse and tell her that he had made a terrible mistake, that he had not meant what he said. But the woman in white seemed to be running across a desert, and running after her a long distance, he came to Bibi Djan.
She wore a green velvet coat and her head was covered with a pink chadour. It was her wedding dress. He remembered her on their wedding day, sitting beside him in front of a large mirror and she had smiled. Now, too, she was staring at him, but she was not smiling.
She seemed to say: “Go away Habib, I am disgusted with you. You must have smoked too much opium today.”
And he replied, “I will smoke no more. I vow it by your life, and by my own life. I will break my pipe to bits. You must believe me, Bibi Djan. Now let us go home. We have a long way to walk. Why don’t you answer me. . . Don’t run away. Wait, dearest to my soul. . .wait!” cried Habib, and was startled to hear his own voice.
(Stay tuned for the exciting conclusion … next Monday)