The April breeze sometimes soothed Neda's aching skin. Not that she did not like the outdoors, but because she was not well, too heavy, and too much in pain, she barely could go out into the yard. Almost most of this month, she had stayed in her room and fostered her particular state of mind, her disappointment, and her anger. She had become familiar to her mood, which was in a way comforting. Her tendency these days was surprisingly not anger but it was despair. Her life was passing by swiftly like when one would look from a window of a train to the fields, while the moving object would be the train, the fields were the ones looked like passing by. All she knew that her like was broken and unfulfilled dreams were the broken pieces. It seemed just like yesterday that she was deceived by the beauty of life! But she still had her poetry, her books! These, no one could take away from her. She had sent some more poems to different journal and magazines. Now, she had more than twenty published poems. She was even paid some money. The other day she got a letter from a magazine. They wanted her to have a contract with them. She would be a regular contributor. In the application she lied about her age. It said if she was under eighteen, her father had to approve and sign, too. She wrote that she was almost nineteen, not seventeen or eighteen. She had just turned seventeen. She signed the contract without saying a word to her family. In the age part, she thought if her father threw her out of home at age sixteen by a deceptive marriage and ruined her life for ever, she would not need his permission to sign a contract, or to make a little money. Now she would be a regular contributor; she would be paid a small amount of money for each poem. This was something hopeful.
She knew what she wrote was only for herself and besides she had no choice but writing. It was an unavoidable impulse with her. Writing always took over her. But this was a new sensation; someone else or other people were interested in her writing and finding them worthwhile. That someone else did not know she was pregnant; she just had turned seventeen; she was about to give her baby away. Would it have made a difference? Would they still want her writing? But how couldn't they? In her poetry, she was always alone; but now something had happened. She was sharing her deepest feelings, fear, anxiety, ... with others!
It was an overwhelming sensation; as she was sharing her body with her baby, now her art was received by all. The longing she had for a long time was now replaced by this acceptance and this contract which she had kept a copy of it for herself. Neda's lips parted to a smile but her eyes did not change. They still had their distance and seriousness. She had joy for the contract she had signed, sorrow for the uncertainty of her life, and extreme fear of the child birth. All these mixed emotions crawled around her in the empty space she occupied. The sound of living was heard, but she only heard the silence.
She could hear the voice of her unborn child. It was the most dignified, noblest voice of all. She listened passionately. What is her baby, a boy or a girl? Her mom thought she would have a girl; she, herself, thought she would have a girl; however the voices told her of its fear not its gender!
She just was a baby herself not long ago. She ran off from school and fell in trap of marriage. Now every sorrow to her was a new one. She had never dreamt of them. She had not known them. She questioned this force "Does every woman in the world face this pain?" She thought if they did, how could they carry on? And that was what she portrayed in her poetry, pain. She let pain flew in her poems even more these days. Her poems, she would realize later in her life, were the open would of the intellectuals in her time.
One of these nights, she was so drawn in learning about herself that she slept but a few hours; nevertheless, she was unconscious of her surroundings, unaware of the conditions of the tangible world, existence. She could still not eat a meal mostly without vomiting. She could not sleep peacefully, serenely; but this night unconsciously, she felt better. Her soul, she felt, was completely independent of her body.
The morning after, she saw a glow on her cheeks which was new. She saw the old sparkle in her eyes and she felt stronger. Her mother noticed the change, how strange!
"Are you feeling better today?'
"I feel wonderful; and I'm hungry."
"That's something new!" Mother said.
She ate with a new appetite. She felt great. She did not vomit. She had finally come to terms with her situation after nine months of pregnancy. For the first time since her divorce, She understood Mansour. He could not tolerate her; and he despised her. Now she knew why. Everything that she treasured and was proud of, he hated. He abhored her strong mind. He was better off with Mitra, a woman who could understand him. And the baby, she would think about it when the time was there.
Feeling stronger after the first enjoyable breakfast she had had during her pregnancy, she decided to write a poem about her short marriage. She named it, "FREE OF CHAIN".
"If I only feel the virtue and ache,
If I only resist the craving,
If I only never fake,
If I only move without raving,
I could retrospect the tormented king;
I would taste and smell the spring.
If I could only ignore the wind's whirl and roar,
And forget the griefs that remain;
I will come to a light that shines at shore;
And I will see that I am free of chain."
To Be Continued
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