Tauris, 2002)

Darbareh-ye Buf-e Kur-e Hedayat (Hedayat’s The Blind Owl, a Critical Monograph) (Tehran: Nashr-e Markaz, 5th impression, 2008)

Sadeq Hedayat va Marg-e Nevisandeh (Sadeq Hedayat and the Death of the Author) (Tehran: Nashr-e Markaz, 4th impression, 2005)

Tanz va Tanzineh-ye Hedayat, (Satire and Irony in Hedayat) (Stockholm: Arash, 2003)

Three Drops of Blood

Hajji Morad

(from Buried Alive)

Hajji morad swiftly jumped off the platform of his shop. He gathered about him the folds of his tunic, tightened his silver belt, and stroked his henna-dyed beard. He called Hasan, his apprentice, and together they closed the shop. Then he pulled four rials from his large pocket and gave them to Hasan, who thanked him and with long steps disappeared whistling among the bustling crowd. Hajji threw over his shoulders the yellow cloak he had put under his arm, gave a look around, and slowly started to walk. At every footstep he took, his new shoes made a squeaking sound. As he walked, most of the shopkeepers greeted him and made polite remarks, saying, “Hello Hajji. Hajji, how are you? Hajji, won’t we get to see you?…”

Hajji’s ears were full of this sort of talk, and he attached a special importance to the word “Hajji”. He was proud of himself and answered their greetings with an aristocratic smile.

This word for him was like a title, even though he himself knew that he had never been to Mecca. The closest he had ever come to Mecca was Karbala,* where he went as a child after his father died. In accordance with his father’s will, his mother sold the house and all their possessions, exchanged the money for gold and, fully loaded, went to Karbala. After a year or two the money was spent, and they became beggars. Hajji, alone, with a thousand difficulties, had got himself to his uncle in Hamadan. By coincidence his uncle died and since he had no other heir all his possessions went to Hajji. Because his uncle had been known in the bazaar as “Hajji”, the title also went to the heir along with the shop. He had no relatives in this city. He made enquiries two or three times about his mother and sister who had become beggars in Karbala, but found no trace of them.

Hajji had got himself a wife two years ago, but he had not been lucky with her. For some time there had been continual fighting and quarrelling between the two of them. Hajji could tolerate everything except the tongue-lashing of his wife, and in order to frighten her, he had become used to beating her frequently. Sometimes he regretted it, but in any case they would soon kiss and make up. The thing that irritated Hajji most was that they still had no children. Several times his friends advised him to get another wife, but Hajji wasn’t a fool and he knew that taking another wife would add to his problems. He let the advice enter into one ear and come out of the other one. Furthermore, his wife was still young and pretty, and after several years they had become used to each other and, for better or worse, they somehow went through life together. And Hajji himself was still young. If God wanted it, he would be given children. That’s why Hajji had no desire to divorce his wife, but at the same time, he couldn’t get over his habit: he kept beating her and she became ever more obstinate. Especially since last night, the friction between them had become worse.