Wedding Song by Farideh Goldin

puff, but my grandmother said that was enough.
    From another corner of
hamam
now came the loud voices of women singing
vasoonak
, a collection of wedding songs traditionally sung by Jewish women of Shiraz:
    Bath keeper, bath keeper, refresh the water in the
hamam

The bride is coming, prepare for her a refreshing
sharbat
    That was the group with a new bride! Many circles of women joined in singing to the bride, and their ululating voices rose and bounced off the high wet ceiling. My grandmother asked me to carry the waterpipe, as all of us went to the bridal group, clapping and singing, offering them our best wishes and a smoke. In return, they offered us
sharbat
made with the essence of fragrant flowers and sugar.
    I saw my friend Mahvash. She spotted me and skipped her way toward me, her wet, blond hair shining, a devilish smile parting her lips. “I guess the bride doesn’t have to spend an extra hour shampooing and combing her pubic hair any more,” she said, chuckling.
    I looked at her dumbfounded.
    She parted the naked bodies and made room for the two of us in front of the bride. She pointed to the woman’s privates and whispered. “Look, now she is all bald! I used to tease her for taking so much time cleaning herself there.”
    I covered my mouth and joined her in giggling.
    I looked at the bride’s body. She was soft and beautiful, stomach flat, breasts hard and round, hair shiny and flowing. That was the way all the young women looked. The contours of their bodies differed, but they all looked healthy and radiant. This was the best place for match-making. Mothers and grandmothers with eligible sons and grandsons came to look and choose; mothers and grandmothers with daughters and granddaughters came to show off their merchandise.
    But even as a child, I could see how fast new brides lost their vibrancy. The arrival of consecutive children and poor medical care ruined women’s bodies, stole the shine from their hair, and sometimes even from their eyes. For every beautiful girl and bride, there were many married women with stomachs bloated and wrinkled like giant prunes, breasts lined with dark vertical lines and drooping as though children had squeezed not onlythe last drops of milk, but also the substance of the breast itself, the fat, muscle, and tissue.
    Years later I would look at my mother’s pictures at the time and marvel at her beauty that was so hidden from me. All I saw then were her lusterless eyes and her permanent fatigue, her sacrifice for me.
    I didn’t want to get married.
    A stench came from another corner of the
hamam
. An old, wrinkled and stooped woman with white and disheveled hair stood next to a column, smearing a brown pasty substance on her arms, legs, and private parts. I stared at her, since I had never seen body hair removed chemically.
    She cussed at me, screaming, “
Boro gomsho nane jendeh
, go get lost, you daughter of a whore.”
    I stood there smiling until my mother heard her and dragged me away.
    At my mother’s request, I threw some dirty clothes on and went outside to tell the
hamami
to leave. It was time for using the
mikvah
. My mother climbed in and immersed herself completely three times. Her curls disappeared under the murky water and surfaced longer and straight. Each time, I worried that she might slip and drown and I would be helpless to save her. I prayed that she would be okay, and, at the same time, I resented having to watch over her. She finally came out shivering and blue, and we headed back to the baths. It was time for a final soaping and rinse, and then we dried and dressed. My mother braided my hair into two long plaits and covered my head with a flowery kerchief so I wouldn’t catch a cold outside with my wet hair exposed.
    I walked home in front of everyone. Sunshine felt good on my skin. Rubbing with the rough cloth had given my body a wonderful tingly sensation all over. I skipped every few steps, happy with a feeling of belonging and a satisfied