Scent of Butterflies Read Online Free PDF

pessimism, as if her Aunt Tala might spring out from behind unknown corners, able and more than willing to inflict yet another undeserved injury upon her charge.
    I, on the other hand, was stubborn and fearless and trusting of my world then, a world that comprised Baba, a loving disciplinarian; Mamabozorg Emerald, always lenient when it came to me; and Madar, who adored and idealized Baba and supported his every decision.
    We were in second grade, Parvaneh and I, when she weaved her way to me in the classroom, holding her lunch box tight against her chest. It was afternoon recess time, the empty room dense with the smells of leftover food in brown bags and lunch boxes.
    â€œDo something, Soraya, please. Do something bad to Ahmad.” She eyed a bully who had made her life miserable, calling her names and tearing the frilly joupons petticoats she wore under her skirts to fluff them up around her skinny thighs. There was something about Parvaneh in those days, a certain timidity and reluctance to fight back, that encouraged some boys into harassing her and others to follow her with puppy eyes.
    â€œI know you can do it,” she pleaded, wiping her tears with the back of one hand.
    â€œDo what?”
    â€œI don’t know. Just make him go away. I beg you, Soraya. Do it for me.”
    Was it her seeming neediness or her admiring, hero-seeking expression that goaded me on? Perhaps it was the sense of vulnerability she exuded like a tempting invitation. At any rate, the need to step in and protect my friend from Ahmad, from her life, from the wiles of the world, was stronger than reason. So, I held her by the hand and led her into the school yard.
    I would never again study a shrub, a flower, a tree, or an herb without recalling that time as the time I first became interested in the study of plants, their hidden healing powers, as well as their ability to hurt. Oh! I was a novice then—no, not even that. I was a curious child, hunched over in a patch of wild plants during recess, my friend leaning over me and watching me with stunned admiration as I picked and rubbed, smelled and tasted unknown plants in the laboratory of my mouth.
    She encouraged me with her ceaseless mantra: “You can do it. You can do it, Soraya.” To this day, I don’t know whether the concoction I invented from some prickly plants, DDT-tainted soil, and water from a mosquito-infected puddle was poisonous or not. What I know is that the endeavor was a success.
    I broke a piece off a bar of chocolate I had brought to snack on, dropped it in the concoction to mask the taste, then poured the whole mess into a half-full bottle of Coca-Cola. Bottle in hand, with Butterfly in tow, I marched toward the end of the school yard, where boys played soccer during lunch hour. We sat on a ledge by a garden of geraniums and waited for the game to end, the hiss of Parvaneh’s anxious fingernails against her flesh louder than the whirr of sprinklers behind.
    It was one of those bright days when the air smelt of rotting fruit and sweating leaves. I remember that day well. How could I not? It was Wednesday, October 13, 1971. The day before, we had watched on television the opening ceremony that inaugurated the four-day festivities in honor of the anniversary of the 2,500-year-old Persian Empire. Iran was decked, groomed, and adorned beyond recognition.
    Preparations had begun ten years before. New roads were built. Infrastructures strengthened. Airports renovated. A tent city was erected on 160 acres of desert land in the city of Persepolis. The desert was cleared of snakes, scorpions, and other poisonous creatures. Parisian architects, chefs, seamstresses, and all manner of artisans were flown in, as well as mature trees and flowers to turn the arid land into a green oasis. Mohammad Reza, the Shah of Iran, was holding what Orson Welles would call “the celebration of twenty-five centuries.” And what the Ayatollah Khomeini would label the