The Market

(circa 1974)

Aleah loved coming to market with Mama – at 9 she could already prepare Assyrian jeweled rice, a basmati rice with noodles topped with buttered nuts and raisins. Today the market teemed with shoppers toting big woven baskets, looking for perfect not-too-ripe fruit for the upcoming holiday. Bowls of spices in bright hues of orange, yellow and brick red sat on a tall bench, exuding heady aromas through the warm Iranian air. She was learning to make dolma next—her favorite—the grape leaves were tricky and had to be cooked for just the right amount of time.

Aleah watched Mama’s dark eyes examine the grapes and pomegranates, then settle on the figs. “These will be good for our fig and walnut cake.” She smiled at her daughter—this was her favorite cake—and tweaked Aleah’s ear as she reached for the plump, pink-streaked fig at the top of the pile.

The shop owner, who had been following them with his eyes, gasped and leaped in to grab her wrist. “Najas, najas!” he screamed. He snatched the fig Mama had touched and tossed it into the garbage bin. 

“I’m sorry—I should have known better,” Mama pleaded, her dark eyes full of shame and fear. The shopkeeper shook his head and waved her away from the bins. “I’m so sorry,” she said again and motioned for Aleah to follow as she scurried to the front to pay for the items already in her basket. She grabbed Aleah’s hand, pulling her into the busy street. Women from the local village stared and whispered, then looked away. They had witnessed the awkward indiscretion. Mama’s embarrassment was palpable, she kept her eyes on her shoes as they walked the street toward home.

“Why did he slap your hand away?” Aleah asked.

Mama’s eyes were wet. “Because to them we are najas—dirty. We are a different religion, and that is enough to make us unclean in their eyes. We can point to what we want, but we cannot touch it.” 

Aleah laced her fingers into Mama’s. “How does a belief in something different make us—our hands—dirty?”

“It does not, Aleah. It does not.” She squeezed Aleah’s shoulder as they walked up the steps to their door. “Come inside and we will work on our grape leaves.” The rest of the evening was spent cooking and listening to music. Mama did not mention the hand slapping at the market to her sister or Bapa, and when Aleah brought it up Mama squinted her eyes and shook her head.

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The next morning brought a light pattering of rain, a good day to do some cleaning inside the house. Aleah almost mistook the soft tap-tapping on the kitchen side door for raindrops. She slipped on the freshly mopped tile as she made her way to open the door.

On the step sat an old woven basket covered with a tea towel. She lifted the towel and caught her breath. In the basket sat a dozen ripe figs, their complexions pink and brown, nestled in the vessel’s tattered, soft weave.

Aleah smiled and pulled the tea towel over the figs as the sun peeked out from behind a cloud, casting a beam across her face. She closed her eyes and lifted the basket up into her arms and ran inside to tell Mama.