skills. He would toss off sketches of flowers, leaves, lotus blossoms, clouds, and animals, and tell me to copy them exactly. I especially liked to copy complicated designs that looked like flowers within flowers within flowers.
Much later, when I had gained more confidence, Gostaham gave me the pattern he had designed for Jamileh's cushions and told me to reverse it, so that the bouquet of tulips leaned to the right instead of the left. Larger carpets often had patterns that went first one way, then the other, so a designer needed to know how to draw both. Every afternoon, during the hours when the household was sleeping, I practiced drawing. I sang folk songs from my village while I worked, happy to be learning something new.
WHENEVER I HAD TIME, I visited Naheed. We were becoming close quickly, now that we shared not just one secret, but two.
After my first experience of seeing her name in ink, I had asked Naheed to teach me to write. She gave me lessons in her workroom whenever I visited. If anybody came to talk with us, I was to pretend I was just drawing. It was not common for a village girl to learn to write.
We started with the letter alef. It was simple to draw, a heartbeat and the letter was done.
"It is long and tall like a minaret," said Naheed, who always thought of shapes that would help me remember the letters.
Alef. The first letter in Allah. The beginning of everything.
I filled a page with tall, straight strokes, watching Naheed out of the corner of my eye. Sometimes I added a curving top to the letter to give it a long, low sound in the throat. When my efforts had met with Naheed's approval, she taught me the letter beh, which was curved like a bowl with a dot underneath. This letter was much trickier. My beh's looked graceless and childish compared with hers. But when she looked over my labors, she was satisfied.
"Now put the two together, alef and beh, and you make the most blessed thing in our land," said Naheed.
I wrote them together and mouthed the word ab: water.
"Writing is just like making rugs," I said.
"What do you mean?" asked Naheed, with a touch of scorn in her voice. She had never made a rug.
I put down my pen to explain. "Words are made letter by letter, in the same way that rugs are formed knot by knot. If you combine different letters, they make different words, and the same is true when you combine colors to make different patterns," I said.
"But writing is from God," objected Naheed.
"He gave us thirty-two letters," I replied, proud that I knew this now, "but how do you explain that He gave us more colors than we can count?"
"I suppose that's true," said Naheed, in a tone that made it clear that she thought letters were superior, like most everyone did.
Naheed took a deep breath and sighed. "I should be working on my writing exercises," she said. Her father had given her a book of calligraphic drills she was supposed to copy before attempting to pen a lion that spelled Allah-hu-Akbar: God is great. "But I can't sit anymore," she added, her green eyes jumping around the room. "My mind is too full."
"Could this have something to do with a handsome polo player?" I said.
"I found out his name: Iskandar," Naheed said, pronouncing it with obvious delight.
"And what about his family?"
She looked away. "I don't know."
"And does he know who you are?" I asked, feeling jealous.
Naheed smiled her prettiest smile. "I think he's starting to know," she said.
"How?"
"Last week, I went to the Image of the World with a friend to watch the polo game. Iskandar scored so many goals for his team that the spectators roared with excitement. After the game, I walked to where the players were being congratulated and pretended to carry on a conversation with my friend until I was sure he noticed us. Then I flipped up my picheh as if I needed to adjust it and let him see my face."
"You didn't!"
"I did," Naheed said triumphantly. "He stared, and it was as if his heart had turned into a bird
Much later, when I had gained more confidence, Gostaham gave me the pattern he had designed for Jamileh's cushions and told me to reverse it, so that the bouquet of tulips leaned to the right instead of the left. Larger carpets often had patterns that went first one way, then the other, so a designer needed to know how to draw both. Every afternoon, during the hours when the household was sleeping, I practiced drawing. I sang folk songs from my village while I worked, happy to be learning something new.
WHENEVER I HAD TIME, I visited Naheed. We were becoming close quickly, now that we shared not just one secret, but two.
After my first experience of seeing her name in ink, I had asked Naheed to teach me to write. She gave me lessons in her workroom whenever I visited. If anybody came to talk with us, I was to pretend I was just drawing. It was not common for a village girl to learn to write.
We started with the letter alef. It was simple to draw, a heartbeat and the letter was done.
"It is long and tall like a minaret," said Naheed, who always thought of shapes that would help me remember the letters.
Alef. The first letter in Allah. The beginning of everything.
I filled a page with tall, straight strokes, watching Naheed out of the corner of my eye. Sometimes I added a curving top to the letter to give it a long, low sound in the throat. When my efforts had met with Naheed's approval, she taught me the letter beh, which was curved like a bowl with a dot underneath. This letter was much trickier. My beh's looked graceless and childish compared with hers. But when she looked over my labors, she was satisfied.
"Now put the two together, alef and beh, and you make the most blessed thing in our land," said Naheed.
I wrote them together and mouthed the word ab: water.
"Writing is just like making rugs," I said.
"What do you mean?" asked Naheed, with a touch of scorn in her voice. She had never made a rug.
I put down my pen to explain. "Words are made letter by letter, in the same way that rugs are formed knot by knot. If you combine different letters, they make different words, and the same is true when you combine colors to make different patterns," I said.
"But writing is from God," objected Naheed.
"He gave us thirty-two letters," I replied, proud that I knew this now, "but how do you explain that He gave us more colors than we can count?"
"I suppose that's true," said Naheed, in a tone that made it clear that she thought letters were superior, like most everyone did.
Naheed took a deep breath and sighed. "I should be working on my writing exercises," she said. Her father had given her a book of calligraphic drills she was supposed to copy before attempting to pen a lion that spelled Allah-hu-Akbar: God is great. "But I can't sit anymore," she added, her green eyes jumping around the room. "My mind is too full."
"Could this have something to do with a handsome polo player?" I said.
"I found out his name: Iskandar," Naheed said, pronouncing it with obvious delight.
"And what about his family?"
She looked away. "I don't know."
"And does he know who you are?" I asked, feeling jealous.
Naheed smiled her prettiest smile. "I think he's starting to know," she said.
"How?"
"Last week, I went to the Image of the World with a friend to watch the polo game. Iskandar scored so many goals for his team that the spectators roared with excitement. After the game, I walked to where the players were being congratulated and pretended to carry on a conversation with my friend until I was sure he noticed us. Then I flipped up my picheh as if I needed to adjust it and let him see my face."
"You didn't!"
"I did," Naheed said triumphantly. "He stared, and it was as if his heart had turned into a bird
Similar Books
A Cowboy for Mom
Honor James
Kismet
Cassie Decker
Heart's Reward
Donna Hill
Hitler and the Nazi Cult of Celebrity
Michael Munn
At the End of Babel
Michael Livingston
Tempting Danger
Eileen Wilks
Deadly Reunion
June Shaw
Doris O'Connor
Too Hot to Handle