Short Story / maidoon-e aftab

The “Maidoon-ay Aftab”

The bazaar was buzzing, and the sun had been up for hours already. The call to prayer was ringing now from the minarets, and it echoed down the long, busy corridors. There was always much to be done before the hot sun shut down everything for a few hours.

Only a few minutes left to get to the maidoon.

He looked up, searching for the sun betwixt the sheets and parday that were hung stretched across the winding paths of the bazaar. There was very little sky to be seen, and the sun was nowhere to be found. It made no difference, he reminded himself, the call to prayer told him the time. The games would begin as soon as it was ended.

The maidoon beckoned.

Dancing away, he avoided the hard boots of a worker, and ducked under a large table covered with greenish-yellow pears and apples. Heavy footfalls stomped on the packed earth, barely avoiding his bare toes. He watched the man tromp by, a few large sacks bending him like a tree in a toofan. How many talents of rice could one man carry? And at what price? He shook that thought away, seeing himself bent and twisted, bags of grain over his shoulder day after day. It wasn’t his destiny. He had one, and today was the first day, the first step to fulfilling it.

Turning, wide-eyed, he checked to see if the coast was clear, but already an endless stream of people was passing to and fro. There was no opening, only the one momentary lapse that had gotten him into the dimly lit corridor and out of the seeking sun.

If he could hide from the sun, he could hide from the Master. Both of them would be looking for him now, and he could not afford discovery. Today had been the day. He could wait no longer.

Shifting the cloth that wound around his head, he pushed it back a bit from his eyes and watched for an opening. Blues and oranges, faded reds, purples and sabzis – the colors of the spectrum crossed before his eyes, inches from his face, all about their own business and completely unaware of the small, browned boy who peeked out from under the protection of the fruit-seller’s table.

He sniffed, and then covered his mouth and nose. It was too dusty here, and the coughing was about to start. He needed to get moving. And it was safer on the move. Master might walk by anytime. Master had heard all about it maidoon, and he would be headed this way as soon as he realized the water bucket sat alone at the well.

The maidoon. And the call to prayer was almost over!

He could wait no longer, and he bolted out of his sanctuary! Bumped by a large man in a long, tattered robe, he rocked back against the table, his momentary place of safety, and spun away, hands reaching and grabbing and tucking away an apple and a pear into the pockets of his loose-fitting trousers. He turned and ran, smiling at his sudden, instinctive reaction and the upcoming glorious breakfast! Behind him the meeveh-foroosh was yelling, calling him back, and then scolding him with words he was sure he’d heard Master use before.

The voice of the fruit-seller faded into the background, and the din of the bazaar took its place. Hurrying along, he ducked and plunged, twisted and turned through the pack. He had no time to think, only to react, only to become one with the crowd, one with the bazaar, a wave in the tumultuous ocean. Voices faded in and out. A vendor exclaimed that everything in his shop was only one dinar. A second and third vendor took up the call, each vying for a customer, each with identical wares piled high in their tiny shops and spilling out into the crush of the alley.

The parday wafted in the warm morning breezes, hundreds of sheets of cloth fluttering in the sky like leafy boughs of plane trees lining a dusty road, blocking out the sun to create a shady path. Only the path was not the cool green of the leaves overhead, but hues of turquoise and gold, amber, coffee and violet, colors beamed down from above, where the sun tried to peek through the canopy. The twisting ally was like a miniature mosaic, tiny squares of color laid close-to to create a work of art.

The minarets continued their melodious exaltation of God, but the end of the prayer was nearing. Behind him he could hear the high-pitched voice fading away, only to be picked up and echoed by a lower tone ahead. It would be the Masjed-ay Soleiman, he told himself. He was sure. Master had mentioned it as being just past the part of the souk where all the fruit-sellers were. And looking around, as he slipped and ducked and danced around the foot traffic, he spied the ripened tomatoes, the figs stacked in fragile pyramids, and the carts of dates and pistachios. Oh, if only he had a toman! But he didn’t have time to be caught stealing. This was the fruit market. And that meant that the maidoon was very close.

A voice thundered through the false twilight of the bazaar, and the boy nearly tripped from fright. It had sounded like the Master, although he wasn’t able to make out the words. Was he coming up behind? Had he seen him? There would only be the whip if he was caught this time.

He forgot the pistachios and figs, and ground his teeth in grim determination, turned and ran.

The corridor split in two directions, blocked ahead by the gleaming beauty of the Masjed-ay Soleiman. Here the sheets overhead gave way to the height and beauty of the marvelous marble majesty. The blue gateway beckoned, the great doors swung open, and just inside he could see the throngs of people pressed together, each seeking a spot below the vaulted dome, a turquoise wonder that reached into the sky and gleamed with the light of the heavenly sun. It was a stunning sight, and for a moment he forgot the crush of the crowd, forgot the Master, and almost forgot the maidoon. For a moment there was only the call of God in his mind, beseeching him to step forward and prostrate himself, seducing him with the promise of Paradise.

He starred, awed and unsure of his next step, mesmerized, destination forgotten, the maidoon drifting away, supplanted by the splendors of God.

And suddenly, a great cheer went up, breaking spell! A call not to prayer, but for the games to begin. And suddenly he was back to here and now, a small boy run away from Master to seek the Maidoon-ay Aftab, a mysterious and magnificent place he’d never seen, a place that would take him on to his destiny, which he felt so surely in his heart, as surely as he saw God under the blue archway before him.

The noise had come from the right, and it was followed by another cheer. God can wait, he thought, and he turned and ran.

The crowd grew even more dense, more so than he thought possible. He was sure that there could never exist this many people in the whole world, much less in Ashkezar. And as the crowd grew larger, it became louder and louder, every mouth working, as if he was now a tiny bee in huge hive. Squeezing through, he took advantage of his size and slipped between legs, careful to watch out for his fingers. He ducked under arms, and dashed through openings, pressing ahead and breathing hard.

Here it was: the maidoon. He was finally here, and his destiny was here. And as he pushed through to the front and stumbled onto the packed but soft earth of the square, landing squarely on his hands and knees, he was awed. There, bigger than he thought anything could ever be, was what had to have been an “elephant”. It was shuffling from side to side, the long trunk swinging in rhythm to its movement. The gray skin was wrinkled and patchy, worn in some areas, and dirty from the dust. The huge feet gave way to massive legs, a gargantuan rounded body, and on the smallish head a pair of ears the size of which the boy had never imagined. Behind it a tiny tail swished aimlessly.

It was an elephant. An elephant! Master had described it perfectly. And here it was. And not only that, there were several, at least four as far as he could tell. And each was outfitted in straps and buckles of leather, leading up to the creature’s back, where a young man sat, one man on each beast, talking amongst themselves. Each of the young men, in turn, was dressed in a tunic of light sabzi, the same color is new palm fronds. And each held a long pole, long enough to reach the ground, with a kind of mallet on the end.

Still sprawled out in wonder, the boy was startled by a loud horn to his left, and sat up, eyes wide, and took in the rest of the Maidoon-ay Aftab, the Field of the Sun, the team of elephants on the far end, their riders all dressed in scarlet and holding similar sticks. And just in the middle, in one corner of the field, was a herd of smaller animals, baby elephants, and a number of small boys standing next to them, all stripped to the waist but wearing bluish, billowing trousers. The sun shone down on their sweaty adolescent chests, but they stood proudly next to their charges, and occasionally reached out and ran their hands over the tough, gray skin of the child-sized beasts.

He smiled, knowing that somehow he was finally where he should be, and he knew then that one way or another, he would have a pair of those azure trousers and stand next to his own baby elephant, no matter what it took. Standing up, he reached into his pocket and pulled out the pear. It was a little bruised, but he bit into it and felt the tender flesh tear away, the succulent sweetness of the pear on his tongue. And then a thought occurred to him, and he pulled the apple out of his pocket, looked at the boys in the distance, smiled, and started walking.

Master, he thought, should never have mentioned seeing the elephants in the Maidoon-ay Aftab.

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