Maj and her relatives were on a train to Mash-had, the city where Imam Reza’s grave lies, where masses of people go to pray in his mosque. Maj’s family occupied one cabin, her husband’s family the other. Her in-law’s cabin was packed with men who smoked and discussed politics. They were talking about the revolution and the new regime. There no longer exited a king. Now they had the religious clergy who ruled. Maj was quietly listening. She had her own plans, her own dreams of what the country needed. She was a proper young woman of 31, a mother to three children. This was no place for her.
The train moved slowly, passing mountains and farmlands and herds of sheep. They were moving away from Tehran, away from their home, away from the revolution they had helped spark.
Maj did something unexpected then. As the men chattered and smoked and played cards, Maj grabbed a cigarette out of Mr. Mohseni’s hand, and walked over to where her mother and aunts had gathered. She pushed the doors aside, blew three puffs of smoke that circled the tiny cabin, mischievously smiling as they yelled and screamed at her.
The men had stopped playing, anticipating what Maj was about to do. She returned then, coolly placing the cigar between Mr. Mohseni’s fingers. There was a moment of pause as Maj’s husband came to her side. No one said a word. And then he said, “That’s my girl!”
They all laughed and applauded Maj as she sat herself down. Another round of cards; this time, Maj joined in.